10 


DOLORES. 


DOLORES. 


BY 


MRS.  FORRESTER, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  FAIR  WOMEN,"  "  MY  HERO,"  ETC.  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA  : 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY. 
1896. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

.       .       •     9 

CHAPTER    II. 

.       .       .    >9 

CHAPTER    III. 

•        •         •    •» 

CHAPTER    IV. 

.       •       •    39 

CHAPTER   V. 

.       .       •    «7 

CHAPTER   VI. 

The  Law  of  Attraction 

•       .       •    57 

CHAPTER   VII. 

Charles  Vivian  on  "  The  Fair  Sex"   .... 

•       .       .68 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

Dolores  in  Paris         . 

.        ..... 

•       •       •    77 

CHAPTER   IX. 

.       .       .    86 

CHAPTER   X. 

.       .       •    97 

CHAPTER   XI. 

.       .       .  109 

I* 

5 

2135455 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    XII.  r*OB 

London  in  Spring •       •       •       .    xx6 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


A  Discussion 


123 


CHAPTER    XIV. 
By  the  Firelight I33 

CHAPTER   XV. 
Milly ,43 


In  St.  Ouen 


CHAPTER    XVI. 


153 


CHAPTER    XVII. 
The  Yellow  Seine 164 

CHAPTER    XVIII. 
In  Days  gone  By ,       .    174 

CHAPTER    XIX. 
A  Confession 184 


CHAPTER    XX. 
A  Letter  . 


The  Real  Picture 


CHAPTER    XXI. 


191 


199 


CHAPTER    XXII. 
What  Fate  Decrees tzo 

CHAPTER    XXIII. 
Lovers  and  Lovers  . 


Godd-by 


«I9 

CHAPTER    XXIV. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 
Guy  tells  his  Story  ........  .438 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   XXVI.  •»« 

What  Milly  thinks 249 

CHAPTER    XXVII. 
What  constitutes  Happiness 959 

CHAPTER   XXVIII. 
Guy  and  Adrian «7° 

CHAPTER   XXIX. 
What  Dolores  Discovers «79 

CHAPTER    XXX. 
The  Cliflfe  of  Albion "89 

CHAPTER    XXXI. 
Lady  Wentworth "99 

CHAPTER   XXXII. 
In  the  Row 3°9 

CHAPTER    XXXIII. 
An  Introduction 3*7 

CHAPTER    XXXIV. 
Lord  Heronmere  falls  in  Love 3& 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 
The  Sun  Shines 34° 

CHAPTER    XXXVI. 
Doubt 347 

CHAPTER    XXXVII. 
Love  at  Cross-purposes •    35s 

CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 
Milly  Pleads 374 

CHAPTER   XXXIX. 
Dolores  Resolves 38» 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    XL.  ttam 

A  New  Lover 398 

CHAPTER    XLI. 
Hcronmere's  Congi          .........    409 

CHAPTER    XLII. 
Heronmere's  Restoration          ........    431 

CHAPTER    XLIII. 
Time  to  Interfere 438 

CHAPTER    XLIV. 
Guy  Returns 443 

CHAPTER    XLV. 
The  Thoroughbred  ..........    455 

CHAPTER   XLVI. 

Eden  Castle  w* 


DOLORES. 


CHAPTER   I. 

LA    CRUCHE    CASSEE. 

AN  April  afternoon  in  fair  Normandy, — an  afternoon 
all  the  fresher  and  brighter  for  the  new-fallen  rain  that 
has  cleared  the  clouds  from  the  sky,  and  left  its  only 
trace  in  the  glistening  drops  which  spangle  the  soft  green 
leaves.  How  fair  sweet  mother  earth  looks,  how  joyous, 
how  beaming,  in  the  perennial  youth  that  comes  to  her 
alone  !  The  heart  which  feels  no  responsive  throb  to  her 
brightness  this  day  must  indeed  be  deeply  scored  by  pain 
and  care.  All  nature  is  awake;  soft  scent  of  flowers, 
sweet  song  of  birds  fill  the  air,  not  with  the  drowsy  lull- 
ing languor  of  summer-time,  but  with  the  keen  quickening 
vigor  of  awakening  life  and  energy.  An  afternoon  when 
one  thanks  God  for  life,  when  one's  heart  throbs  with  a 
sudden  choking  pity  for  the  eyes  that  are  closed  to  all 
this  fair  brightness,  for  the  ears  that  no  longer  hear  those 
sweet  glad  sounds,  for  the  lips  that  are  mute,  ah,  God  1 
to  us  who  once  watched  so  wistfully  for  their  unclosing. 

Down  in  the  valley,  the  winding  Seine  flowing  at  its 

foot,  lies  the  ancient  city  of  Rouen,  rearing  its  triumphs 

of  past  generations  to  the  blue  sky, — its  splendid  piles 

of  Gothic  architecture,  its  lace-work  of  fretted  stone. 

A*  9 


10 


DOLORES. 


Lingering  in  the  old  streets,  looking  upwards  with  loving 
reverence  at  the  time-worn  structures,  a  warmer  glow 
comes  into  our  English  hearts,  an  odd,  home  feeling,  as 
if  this  ancient  city  were  one  in  which  we,  too,  have  pride, 
have  feeling  of  kinship.  One  turns  from  the  new  parts 
of  the  town, — from  the  gay  boulevards,  the  clean  com- 
modious stone  houses  that  look  so  solidly  and  unpic- 
turesquely  comfortable,  from  the  rows  of  tempting  shops, 
reminding  one  of  a  miniature  Paris ;  and  one  haunts  over 
and  over  again  the  old-fashioned,  ill-paved  streets,  with 
their  tumble-down  houses  nodding  across  the  narrow  way 
to  each  other;  the  venerable  trophies  of  dead  men's 
hands,  blackened,  worn,  half  effaced  with  the  lapse  of 
centuries,  and  all  the  dear  remnants  of  time  so  long  gone 
by,— dear  only  from  distance.  As  if  human  hearts  beat 
then  with  other  hopes  and  passions  than  to-day,  as  if  we 
who  live,  and  love,  and  suffer  now,  were  different  from 
those  men  and  women  dead  so  long  ago.  More  refine- 
ment, more  education,  more  knowledge, — a  change  of 
dress,  a  change  of  manners  to-day,  perhaps;  but,  ah  me! 
the  same  capacity  for  suffering,  the  same  experience  of 
life,  all  the  time  from  the  creation  until  now.  How  odd 
it  seems  to  think  of  that  long  gone  past  as  a  present !  to 
think  that  centuries  back  was  once  to-day,  to  close  one's 
eyes  and  see  in  fancy  the  vast  multitude  thronging  to 
witness  the  meeting  of  Henry  and  Francis,  as  a  few  years 
ago  one  looked  upon  the  sea  of  upturned  faces  come  to 
gaze  upon  Napoleon  and  Victoria.  But  the  men  and 
women  dead  so  long  ago  have  no  real  individuality  for  us, 
— Agnes  Sorel  and  Diana  of  Poictiers  are  vague  names  in 
our  ears,  coming  across  us  like  the  princesses  of  fairy  tales. 
Yet  centuries  ago  this  old  city  of  Rouen  knew  them,  and 
people  talked  of  them,  and  discussed  their  charms,  as  freely 
as  we  do  the  court  beauties  of  to-day. 


LA    C RUCHE    CASSEE.  xz 

What  have  I  to  do  with  Agnes  Sorel  or  Diana  of  Poic- 
tiers,  with  Arlette  of  Falaise  or  Joan  of  Arc,  with  all  the 
kings  and  princes,  and  dukes  who  made  war,  and  slew, 
and  conquered,  lived,  intrigued,  hoped,  and  died  in  this 
ancient  town  of  Normandy  ! 

I  am  going  to  tell  all  you  who  care  to  hear  it  a  simple 
story  of  a  little  childish,  innocent  maiden,  who  has  no 
part  nor  parcel  in  royalty  or  grandeur,  who  knows  nothing 
of  statecraft,  or  ambition,  or  despair,  but  leads  her  own 
humble,  simple  life,  without  great  events,  but  without  great 
sorrows,  up  yonder  in  that  sweet  spot  looking  down  on  the 
old  town  where  I  stood  but  now,  when  my  errant  thoughts 
started  on  their  vague  unprofitable  wanderings.  Yes,  you 
may  see  her  now  standing  in  that  very  garden  which  is 
there  to-day,  looking  back  at  the  white  house  with  brown 
Venetian  shutters,  and  calling  in  a  gleeful,  birdlike  voice, 
"Marcelline."  An  old-fashioned  French  garden,  not  too 
well  kept,  and  yet  not  straggling  nor  untidy, — a  garden 
over  which  this  April  afternoon  the  very  sweetest,  softest 
winds  of  heaven  are  playing.  There  are  great  masses  of 
gorgeous  tulips  and  double  stocks  of  sweet-smelling  wall- 
flowers and  clustering  lilac,  great  blue  and  white  fleurs- 
de-lis,  growing  in  rows  over  thick  borders  of  heaven-blue 
forget-me-nots,  espalier  pear-trees,  stretching  their  long 
arms  out  to  each  other,  and  pink  apple-blossoms  thick 
upon  the  old  fruit-trees  that  line  the  wide  gravel  walk. 

Some  one  besides  you  and  me,  reader,  is  looking  at  this 
spring  picture,  looking  with  rapt  eyes  of  keen  admiration ; 
some  one  who,  tired  of  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  quay, 
tired  of  fretted  stone-work  and  painted  glass,  of  old  his- 
tories and  memories  and  relics,  has  left  the  town  and 
wandered  up  the  Rue  d'Ernemont  to  the  Barriere,  to 
breathe  the  fresh  air  blowing  over  the  hills  of  Normandy, 
and  watch  the  fair  landscape  lying  so  tranquil  beneath  ; 


I  a  DOLORES. 

some  one  who,  hidden  behind  the  hedge  of  clipped  elms, 
looks  at  the  young  girl  with  intent  eyes  and  murmurs, 

"  Greuze's  very  picture  !" 

The  resemblance  could  hardly  have  failed  to  strike 
any  one  who,  wandering  through  the  galleries  of  the 
Louvre,  had  paused  before  Jean  Baptiste  Greuze's  sweet 
picture  "La  Cruche  Cass6e."  The  same  sweet  childish 
face  framed  in  deep  auburn  hair,  the  same  fair  skin  rosy- 
tinted,  the  same  deep  blue  unspeculative  eyes  and  rose- 
bud mouth.  All  the  same,  even  to  the  very  lap  full  of 
pink  apple-blossoms. 

The  young  man  stood  unseen,  leaning  against  the  nar- 
row-barred gate,  and  looking  with  entranced  eyes  at  the 
girl.  It  was  not  love  at  first  sight.  Something  quite 
different  from  that  keen  first  emotion  which  a  breath  may 
qui«?ken  into  love — it  was  the  feeling  that  appeals,  not  to 
heart  or  mind,  but  purely  to  the  sense. 

As  he  watches,  a  stout,  good-humored  looking  woman, 
with  a  frilled  white  cap  and  clean  kerchief  pinned  across 
her  breast,  appears  at  the  house  door. 

"Come  in,  mademoiselle  1"  she  calls.  "Your  dinner 
is  served." 

"But  I  am  not  hungry,  Marcelline." 

"Ah  ca!  but  one  must  eat  even  if  one  isn't  hungry, 
petite ;  and  when  you  but  see  what  I  have  prepared — " 
and  Marcelline  concludes  her  sentence  with  an  oracular 
nod. 

"Tell  me,  Marcelline,  what  is  it?" 

"  But  come  and  see,  mademoiselle." 

"Tell  me  first,  dear,  good  Marcelline,"  cries  the  girl. 

"Well — then, — first  some  bouillon" 

"  Oh !  it's  too  hot  for  bouillon"  and  the  pretty  shoulders 
are  shrugged  half  up  to  the  ears. 

"Then  some  little— little  radishes." 


LA    CRUCHR   CASS&S.  1 3 

"Well!" 

"Then  a  cotelette  de  veau piqule. " 

"Yes." 

"And  a  chou  au  gratin" 

"Ah,  good;  and  then." 

"What  more  would  the  child  have?"  exclaims  Marcel- 
line,  slyly. 

"  Why,  does  one  ever  dine  without  sweets?" 

"  Well,  then  I  had  to  go  into  the  Rue  Beauvoisine,  and 
I  brought  one  of  your  favorite  cakes,  all  over  chocolate 
and  white  sugar." 

"Oh,  you  dear  Marcelline !"  cries  the  little  maid, 
ecstatically,  "then  I  will  come  and  eat  without  being 
hungry.  But  first,  pick  me  this  sweet  little  cluster  just 
above  my  head." 

"  Fie  !  what  waste  !"  cries  Marcelline,  approaching  all 
the  same,  "spoiling  good  fruit  just  for  a  fancy." 

"  But  they  look  so  pretty  in  the  vases." 

"Pretty — ah,  bah!  and  for  whom?  Where  are  the 
visitors  to  admire  them?" 

"  But  they  are  for  me — I  like  them." 

"  A  silly  fancy.  And  in  the  autumn,  when  you  want 
your  tourte  aux  pommes  every  day,  I  shall  have  to  buy 
apples,  and  Blaise  Allain,  the  fruitier,  is  a  cheat." 

Marcelline's  strictures  on  the  folly  of  plucking  apple- 
blossoms  are  more  practical,  but  certainly  not  so  poetic 
as  Christina  Rossetti's : 

"  I  plucked  pink  blossoms  from  mine  apple-tree 
And  wore  them  all  that  evening  in  my  hair. 
Then  in  the  autumn,  when  I  went  to  see, 
I  found  no  apples  there." 

Nevertheless  she  picks  the  desired  cluster,  and  then  the 
two  walk  back  into  the  house  and  are  lost  to  view. 

2 


I4  DOLORES. 

The  watcher  turns  away  with  a  sense  of  disappointment ; 
he  could  have  looked  a  great  deal  longer  at  the  pretty 
picture.  He  saunters  down  the  road,  now  and  again 
stopping  to  glance  over  the  hedge  at  the  numerous  pic- 
turesque campagnes  dotted  about,  or  the  sweet  view  lessen- 
ing gradually  as  he  descends. 

"A  quarter  past  five,"  he  says,  taking  out  his  watch, 
"and  the  table-d'hotc  is  at  half-past.  I  think  I  shall  dine 
there  after  all,  it's  very  slow  having  no  one  to  talk  to." 

Quickening  his  steps,  he  returns  to  his  hotel  upon  the 
quay ;  but  his  gregarious  aspirations  are  doomed  to  disap- 
pointment, for  at  dinner  he  is  placed  between  a  round- 
eyed  German,  intent  on  the  business  of  the  hour,  and  a 
party  of  unprotected  British  females,  armor-proof  in  vir- 
tuous exclusiveness.  Feeling  rather  bored  after  the  not 
too  rechercht  meal,  he  strolls  out  on  the  quay  with  a  cigar. 
Crowds  of  men  are  promenading  the  broad  walk  under 
the  trees,  enjoying  the  relaxation  from  business,  and  yet 
not  able  to  forget  the  commercial  incidents  of  the  day. 
You  could  not  mistake  them  for  anything  but  brokers  and 
merchants, — that  noisy,  bustling,  chattering  crowd,  re- 
minding one,  however  humbly,  of  Manchester  and  the 
Stock  Exchange — (by  the  way,  they  dignify  Rouen  with 
the  name  of  the  Manchester  of  France).  There  are  a  few 
women,  mostly  of  the  lower  grade,  in  white  caps  and 
aprons  (very  few  retain  the  picturesque  high  Norman  caps 
and  massive  gold  ear-rings),  and  a  large  sprinkling  of  sol- 
diers in  gay,  if  somewhat  tawdry  uniform.  The  dapper 
young  officers  strut  about  with  their  small  waists,  gold 
epaulettes,  and  white  kid  gloves ;  and  altogether  the  scene 
is  a  very  gay  and  busy  one.  Sir  Guy  Wentworth  (our 
hero  by  courtesy)  lounges  on  to  the  great  suspension 
bridge,  and  looks  down  at  the  dull-colored  Seine,  where 
lie  the  big-masted  ships  and  barges  in  course  of  unlading. 


LA    CRUCHE    CASSEE.  i$ 

Great  bales,  baskets  and  cases,  stone  and  timber,  are  piled 
all  along  the  quay.  Carts  heavily  laden  pass  to  and  fro. 
On  one  side  of  the  water  are  the  boulevards,  hotels,  caf6s, 
shops,  the  Bourse ;  on  the  other,  great  manufactories,  and 
the  poorer  part  of  the  town.  Then  he  walks  to  the  mas- 
sive stone  bridge  to  see  the  statue  of  Corneille,  and  looks 
down  towards  the  green  islands  in  the  Seine,  and  the 
pretty  country  beyond.  Women  pass  him  with  their 
baskets  of  live  poultry.  Numbers  of  French  poodles  wag 
their  tasselled  tails  at  him,  and  for  some  time  he  is  toler- 
ably amused  by  his  investigation  of  the  natives,  until  an 
uneasy  desire  to  see  the  little  "  Cruche  Cass6e,"  as  he 
calls  her,  takes  possession  of  him. 

"How  I  wish  I  could  get  to  paint  her!"  he  thinks. 
"  I  should  like  to  make  a  good  likeness  of  her,  and  take  it 
to  the  Louvre,  to  see  if  after  all  there  is  a  real  resemblance. 
I'm  glad  I  brought  my  brushes, — not  that  I'm  likely  to  get 
a  chance  of  gratifying  my  fancy.  Quien  sabe  ?  Fortune 
sometimes  favors  the  bold, — anyhow,  I  shall  try  to  see  her 
again.  I  wonder  who  she  is,  and  what  her  belongings 
are  !  She  doesn't  look  much  like  a  French  girl.  I  never 
will  come  abroad  alone  again,"  finishes  up  the  young  man, 
with  a  prolonged  yawn ;  "it's  most  confoundedly  slow." 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  he  walks  out  of  the 
hotel,  book  and  pencil  in  hand,  and  takes  his  way  up  the 
town  with  a  view  of  making  a  sketch  of  the  Rue  Eau  de 
Robec,  that  had-  pleased  his  fancy  the  previous  day. 

"  I  must  make  friends  with  the  aborigines,  and  get  them 
to  let  me  sit  in  a  doorway,"  he  reflects,  "or  else  I  shall  be 
the  centre  of  attraction  to  all  the  children  I  saw  playing 
in  the  gutter  yesterday,  or,  worse  still,  those  witch-like 
old  women.  I  wonder  why  the  old  women  abroad  are 
so  infernally  ugly?  " — (a  most  appropriate  adjective,  by 
the  way).  And  thus  thinking,  he  arrives  at  the  com 


1 6  DOLORES. 

mencement  of  that  most  curious  of  old  streets,  the  Rue 
Eau  de  Robec.  Roughly  paved  it  is,  with  no  footpath, 
full  of  old  furniture  shops, — most  of  the  wares  exposed  in 
the  street, — children  are  playing,  and  old  women  knitting 
in  the  gutters.  And  the  houses,  oh  !  the  queerest  of  all 
queer  tenements,  all  sixes  and  sevens,  of  different  con- 
structions, ages,  and  materials.  Some  of  the  veriest  rats' 
castles,  built  of  wood,  with  old  worm-eaten  shutters  and 
tumble-down  balconies ;  some  lath  and  plaster,  and  cross- 
beams overhung  by  great  eaves;  some,  and  these  in  a  de- 
cided minority,  of  brick,  with  good  Venetian  shutters,  and 
a  solid  habitable  appearance.  Pots  of  flowers  are  placed  in 
all  the  windows,  giving  a  cheery  look  amidst  the  general 
ruin, — gay  tulips,  double  stocks,  roses,  cinerarias,  and 
bright-eyed  geraniums.  Under  the  houses  on  the  right- 
hand  side  coming  into  town,  flows  a  piece  of  water,  some 
eight  feet  wide  and  four  deep,  of  a  dull  brown,  bringing 
with  it  strong  odors  of  the  tanyards  it  has  passed  on  its 
sluggish  way,  with  sombre  tints  from  the  great  dyeing 
places.  Every  house  has  its  bridge  to  the  street,  and 
here  and  there  are  little  worm-eaten  wooden  doors  cut  in 
the  wall  just  above  the  water,  out  of  which  one  could  well 
fancy  some  inconvenient  existence  being  thrust  to  eternity 
on  a  dark  night,  and  no  one  the  wiser.  A  stifled  cry,  a 
splash,  and  the  Eau  de  Robec  would  go  on  its  sluggish 
way,  with  only  a  momentary  stirring  of  its  hidden  foulness. 
Sir  Guy,  arrived  at  what  he  considers  the  most  pictur- 
esque bend  of  the  street,  looks  out  for  a  doorway  suitable 
to  his  designs.  A  bright -looking  middle-aged  woman  is 
standing  on  the  step  of  one  of  the  most  barn-like  tene- 
ments, and  raising  his  hat  ceremoniously  to  her,  the 
young  man  begs  permission  to  make  his  sketch  from  her 
doorstep.  She  gives  a  good-humored  assent,  rather  glad 
of  some  little  incident  to  break  the  monotony  of  every- 


LA    CRUCHE   CASSEE.  xy 

day  life  in  the  Rue  de  Robec.  Tumble-down  houses 
have  no  particular  antiquarian  interest  for  their  inhabi- 
tants, who  would  probably  exchange  picturesqueness  for 
solid  comfort  with  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction.  So  Sir 
Guy  makes  his  sketch,  and  chats  to  the  woman,  and  being 
naturally  good-hearted  and  fond  of  children,  makes  friends 
with  the  blue-eyed  baby  Normans  who  come  toddling 
about  him  in  wide-eyed  curiosity,  and  finally  draws  a 
little  picture  of  them,  to  please  the  complaisant  mother. 
He  is  in  the  act  of  closing  his  book  when  two  figures  pass 
the  doorway,  the  sight  of  whom  makes  him  start  up,  bid 
a  hasty  adieu  and  thanks  to  his  new  acquaintance,  and 
start  off  down  the  street  in  pursuit. 

It  is  the  "Cruche  CasseV'  and  Marcelline.  They  are 
walking  briskly,  and  he  follows  at  a  little  distance,  not 
wishing  to  attract  their  attention.  Presently  they  turn 
up  towards  the  church  of  St.  Ouen,  Sir,Guy  still  pursuing. 
They  pass  the  splendid  pile  without  even  a  glance  at  the 
beautiful  lantern  tower,  or  those  master-piece  arches  over 
the  doorway ;  then,  as  if  struck  by  an  after-thought,  they 
turn  back  and  enter. 

The  young  man  pauses  a  few  moments  before  pushing 
open  the  door  that  has  closed  upon  the  girl ;  he  has  not 
the  effrontery  some  men  possess  in  pursuing  and  staring 
offensively  at  a  pretty  woman.  When  he  enters,  the 
pair  are  not  visible,  but  walking  up  between  those  grand 
columns  that  give  one  a  sense  of  awed  ecstasy  by  the 
majesty  of  their  perfection  he  sees  the  girl's  form,  half 
hidden  by  a  pillar,  gazing  up  with  rapt  blue  eyes  at  the 
gorgeous  rose-window  above  the  organ. 

Guy  smiles  to  himself  at  the  childish  love  of  bright 

color  that  makes  her  look  so  long  at  the  glass  stained 

blue  and  red,  gold  and  green, — that  seems  to  him  the 

thing  least  worth  looking  at  amidst  so  much  symmetry  of 

B  2* 


18  DOLORES. 

architectural  elegance, — such  perfect  harmony  of  shape 
and  form.  He  glances  round  for  Marcelline,  and  pres- 
ently espies  her  kneeling  at  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin, 
crossing  herself  and  gabbling  a  hasty  prayer.  When  she 
rises,  Sir  Guy  draws  back  a  little  into  the  shade  of  the 
column,  and  Marcelline,  beckoning  her  charge,  goes  out. 
He  follows  them  at  a  little  distance  as  they  ascend  the 
steep  Rue  d'Ernemont,  the  girl  with  a  light,  bounding 
step  like  a  fawn's,  Marcelline  toiling  heavily  and  pausing 
very  often  to  take  breath. 

"  But  come,  Marcelline  !"  cries  the  fresh  young  voice; 
"  we  shall  not  be  home  to-day,  and  the  sun  burns  like 
August." 

"Ah,  yes,"  grumbles  the  older  woman,  stopping  to 
pant  out  her  words,  "  you  young  people  think  of  nothing 
but  yourselves.  Once  I  too  could  bound  up  hill  like  a 
chamois, — but  wait  only  until  you  have  my  years  on  your 
shoulders,  and  the  asthma  besides." 

"  Come,  I  will  help  you,"  and  laughing,  the  girl 
takes  her  companion  by  the  arm  and  begins  to  run  up  hill. 

"  Tiens,  tiens !  stop,  Mademoiselle  Dolores,"  pants 
Marcelline,  "  Mon  Dieu,  comme  vous  etes  mechante  !  " 

Presently  they  arrive  at  the  iron  gate  that  incloses  the 
avenue  entrance  to  the  house,  and  here  fresh  trouble 
awaits  Marcelline.  The  key  has  been  thrown  back  on 
the  grass,  just  out  of  reach. 

" Mon  Dieu  !  what  are  we  going  to  do  now?"  cries 
the  poor  woman  in  great  distress.  "  Pierre  will  be  at 
his  dinner,  and  Jeanneton  is  as  deaf  as  a  post." 

"  But  she  will  hear  the  bell." 

"  The  bell  is  broken  since  yesterday,  and  that  stupid 
Pierre  has  forgot  to  mend  it.  Pierre!  Pierre!"  she 
screams,  as  a  forlorn  hope.  But  no  answer  breaks  the 
stillness. 


ACROSS   THE  HILLS   OF  NORMANDY.  jp 

"  I  will  run  round  to  the  other  gate  in  five  minutes," 
cries  Dolores. 

"Impossible,  mademoiselle,"  exclaims  Marcelline. 
"  Madame  your  mother  forbade  me  to  lose  sight  of  you, 
and  it  is  more  than  half  a  mile  by  the  road ;  all  up  hill 
too ;"  and  the  poor  soul  groans  heavily. 

At  this  moment  Guy  comes  forward  shyly, — very  shyly 
for  a  handsome  young  fellow  six  feet  high. 

"  If  you  permit  me  to  try,  madame,  I  think  I  could 
reach  the  key,"  he  says,  taking  off  his  hat  very  courteously. 

Marcelline  turns  suspiciously, — then  seeing  such  a  frank, 
good-looking  face,  she  smiles  and  answers, 

"Ah,  monsieur,  you  give  yourself  too  much  trouble." 


CHAPTER    II. 

ACROSS  THE  HILLS   OF   NORMANDY. 

SIR  GUY  broke  a  small  bough  from  trees  that  branched 
overhead,  and  began  to  pull  off  the  twigs  that  covered  it, 
Dolores  watching  him  with  shy  curiosity  the  while.  Then 
he  pushed  the  stick  through  the  bars  of  the  gate,  and  after 
a  few  unsuccessful  efforts,  hooked  up  the  key  and  handed 
it  to  Marcelline.  The  worthy  soul  was  profuse  in  her 
thanks,  and,  feeling  that  such  an  obligation  demanded 
something  more  than  mere  words,  she  invited  him,  albeit 
with  some  hesitation,  to  enter  and  rest  himself.  This  was 
precisely  what  Sir  Guy  wanted,  but  with  the  guilty  con- 
sciousness of  having  sought  the  opportunity,  he  looked 
and  felt  a  little  doubtful  of  accepting  the  invitation. 


ao  DOLORES. 

Glancing  furtively  at  Dolores,  he  read  such  entreaty  in 
her  all-unconscious  eyes  that  he  decided  at  once  upon  his 
answer. 

"I  don't  like  to  trespass  upon  your  hospitality,"  he 
said  to  Marcelline,  "  but  I  am  making  a  few  sketches,  and 
if  you  would  allow  me  a  glimpse  of  the  view  from  your 
garden,  which  I  am  sure  must  be  lovely,  I  should  feel 
really  grateful." 

Madame  Power,  her  lady,  was  from  home,  Marcelline 
replied,  but  she  felt  sure  that  Madame  would  be  charmed 
that  Monsieur  should  make  his  sketch  from  her  garden. 
Madame  was  English.  Marcelline  surmised  that  Monsieur 
was  a  compatriot. 

"Oh,  are  you  English?"  cried  Dolores,  breaking 
silence  for  the  first  time. 

"Yes,"  Sir  Guy  answered,  smiling  at  the  eager  up- 
turned face. 

"And  I  too." 

"  I  thought  so  yesterday,  when  you  were  standing 
under  the  apple-trees,"  said  the  young  man,  betraying 
himself  unintentionally. 

"You  saw  me  yesterday !"  cried  Dolores  in  surprise,  a 
faint  blush  coming  into  her  cheek  like  the  sun-kissed  side 
of  a  peach. 

Here  Marcelline  interrupted.  She  did  not  approve  of 
her  young  lady  conversing  with  a  stranger  in  a  language 
foreign  to  her  ears. 

"Mademoiselle,  you  had  best  come  in  doors,  and 
Monsieur  will  make  his  choice  of  a  point  de  vue  for  his 
picture."  But  Dolores  hesitated.  "You  have  made 
some  sketches  in  Rouen,  monsieur?"  she  said  interroga- 
tively, glancing  at  his  book. 

" Two  or  three.     Would  you  like  to  see  them?" 

"Ah,  so  much." 


ACROSS   THE  HILLS   OF  NORMANDY.  2X 

He  opened  the  leaves  at  his  last  sketch. 

"  That  is  the  Rue  Eau  de  Robec  that  we  came  through 
just  now,  I  know,"  cried  the  girl,  clapping  her  hands. 
"Ah,  monsieur,  what  could  you  see  to  draw  in  that  ugly, 
tumble-down  old  place?" 

"I  thought  it  picturesque,  mademoiselle." 

"  Picturesque  !"  and  Dolores  put  her  head  on  one  side 
and  made  a  little  moue  that  was  thoroughly  French. 
"Picturesque!  but  how  poor  and  uncomfortable; — and 
the  smell !  I  always  run  through  as  fast  as  my  feet  will 
carry  me.  I  hate  all  the  old  parts  of  the  town,  the  narrow- 
streets,  where  the  upper  stories  nearly  touch  across  the 
way,  like  the  Rue  de  la  Grosse  Bouteille,  and  the  Rue 
Damiette, — I  never  go  there  unless  I  am  forced.  Some- 
times Marcelline  takes  me  to  the  Rue  de  I'lmp6ratrice  and 
the  Rue  des  Carmes,  and  we  look  at  the  shops,  or  we  go 
on  the  Quai,  and  we  see  all  the  soldiers  and  people  walk- 
ing about." 

"And  do  you  go  often  to  the  churches?" 

"Sometimes  on  a  saint's  day,  when  Marcelline  wants 
to  say  her  prayers." 

" Don't  you  think  them  very  beautiful?" 

A  little  French  shrug  of  the  pretty  shoulders  was  the 
response. 

"  They  are  very  cold  and  gloomy,  and  there  is  a  musty 
smell  always,"  and  Dolores  turned  over  the  leaf.  "Ah, 
that  is  the  Place  de  la  Pucelle  !" 

"  Yes,  I  tried  to  give  Goujon's  statue  of  Jeanne  d'Arc." 

"Jeanne  d'Arc?  who  was  she?" 

"What!"  cried  Sir  Guy,  astonished.  "You  live  in 
Rouen  and  don't  know  who  Joan  of  Arc  was?" 

Dolores  shook  her  head. 

"  Why,  the  girl  who  saved  France  from  us,  and  whom 
we  were  cowards  enough  to  burn." 


22  DOLORES. 

"Oh,  the  Pucelle  d'Orleans, — oh,  yes,  of  course  I've 
heard  of  her,  only  they  always  call  her  la  Pucelle  here. 
And  that  is  the  Hotel  de  Bourgtherould.  Oh,  how  I  wish 
I  could  draw  like  you,  monsieur  !" 

"Mademoiselle!"  cried  Marcelline,  fidgeting  about, 
"will  you  please  to  enter?  With  your  hat  off  you  will 
have  a  coup  de  soleil" 

"I  will  go  into  the  shade,"  answered  Dolores,  taking 
the  book  and  seating  herself  on  the  bank  under  the  trees. 
'*  You  can  go  in,  Marcelline,  and  prepare  the  dejeuner" 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  enter  with 
me,"  exclaimed  Marcelline,  reddening  with  anger. 

"No,"  said  Dolores,  with  a  pout  and  a  rebellious 
glance  of  the  blue  eyes;  "I  want  to  see  these  pictures." 

Sir  Guy  felt  in  rather  an  awkward  position,  particularly 
as  the  Frenchwoman  began  to  dart  indignant  glances  in 
his  direction. 

"Ah,  there  is  the  view  from  Bon  Secours,"  cried 
Dolores.  "Yes,  that  is  the  Seine  and  the  long  pear- 
shaped  islands  in  it,  and  there  are  the  manufactories  and 
the  railway  bridge, — and,  ah  !  yes,  the  Cathedral,  with  its 
frightful  iron  spire.  Is  it  not  frightful,  monsieur?" 

Here  Marcelline  walked  off  to  the  house  in  a  rage. 

"  I  think  your  servant  is  displeased  that  you  are  talking 
with  me,"  said  Sir  Guy. 

"Oh,  she  is  a  cross  old  thing,"  pouted  Dolores,  and 
then  she  looked  up  in  Sir  Guy's  face  with  bright  pleading 
eyes.  "  Do  not  go  away  just  yet,  monsieur.  I  never  see 
any  one  but  the  clergyman  and  old  Pierre,  or  sometimes 
the  doctor  when  mamma  is  ill." 

The  girl's  manner  was  so  simple  and  natural,  there  was 
not  a  vestige  of  forwardness  in  her  frank  speech,  and  Sir 
Guy,  looking  down  at  the  pretty  upturned  face,  fell  in 
love  with  its  sweet  innocence  and  guilelessness. 


ACROSS    THE  HILLS   OF  NORMANDY.  23 

"I  should  like  to  stay  better  than  anything,"  he  an- 
swered, bending  down  to  her,  "but  I  feel  that  I  am  an 
intruder.  You  don't  know  anything  about  me.  I  doubt 
if  this  will  make  you  any  wiser,"  he  added,  taking  out 
his  card. 

"Sir  Guy  Wentworth,"  read  Dolores;  and  then  she 
blushed  a  little,  fearing  lest  she  had  made  too  free  with 
such  a  grand  personage.  "  If  Monsieur  excuses  me,  I  will 
go  in  to  Marcelline,  who  awaits  me.  Monsieur  will  not 
leave  the  garden  before  having  made  his  sketch."  And 
she  rose  from  the  bank,  made  him  a  graceful  little  curtsey, 
and  tripped  off  into  the  house. 

"  So  you  have  chosen  to  come  in  at  last,  mademoi- 
selle," said  Marcelline,  with  some  asperity,  as  she  entered. 
"  I  shall  take  care  before  I  invite  any  one  to  come  into 
the  garden  again." 

"Is  he  not  handsome,  Marcelline?"  said  the  little 
maid,  meditatively,  not  noticing  the  crossness  of  the  tone 
in  which  the  remark  was  made. 

"He  is  big,  like  all  Englishmen,"  retorted  Marcelline; 
"but  he  has  no  figure." 

"  You  mean  he  has  not  a  waist  like  the  little  French 
officers  down  on  the  quay.  How  I  should  like  to  go  to 
England,  if  all  Englishmen  are  like  him." 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  are  not  to  think  of  men  at  all.  I 
shall  take  care  you  see  no  more.  What  would  Madame 
your  mother  say  !  She  would  never  forgive  me.  I  hope 
he  will  go  soon." 

"  How  beautifully  he  draws  !"  sighed  Dolores. 

"Bah,  it  is  his  business.  Some  poor  adventuring 
artist,  I  doubt  not,  though  his  clothes  are  so  fine,  and  his 
linen  of  a  dazzling  whiteness.  Those  artists  are  always 
good  for  nothing." 

"  But  he  is  a  grand  gentleman,  Marcelline." 


24  DOLORES. 

" La,  la,  la !     Your  English  are  all  milords  abroad." 

"Well,  then,  look  here,"  and  Dolores  produced  the 
card  triumphantly. 

"And  what  does  that  mean  to  say?"  asked  Marcelline 
incredulously. 

"  It  means  that  he  is  a  grand  person,  and  down  there 
at  the  bottom  is  where  he  lives, — Wentworth  Court.  That 
means  a  chateau  in  a  large  park,  like  M.  de  Cevennes's, 
where  your  cousin  lives." 

"Ah?"  said  Marcelline,  more  respectfully.  "Now, 
mademoiselle,  you  eat  your  dtjeuner,  and  I  shall  ask  this 
fine  stranger  if  he  will  eat  and  drink  something."  And 
she  tied  on  a  clean  apron,  and  walked  into  the  garden, 
followed  by  Dolores's  wistful  eyes. 

Sir  Guy  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  house, 
looking  down  at  the  lovely  view,  perfect  in  full  sunshine. 
At  his  feet  lay  the  old  town,  rearing  its  many  spires  to  the 
blue  sky ;  and  on  either  side  wound  the  yellow  curving 
Seine,  bounded  by  fields  and  clumps  of  trees,  and  shut  in 
by  the  fair  green  hills  of  Normandy. 

"  Quite  an  English  landscape,"  murmured  the  young 
man,  opening  his  book. 

"He  is  handsome,  certainly,"  reflected  Marcelline, 
coming  down  a  side  path  and  contemplating  the  stalwart 
form  and  handsome  face  she  caught  just  in  profile. 

She  had  a  genuine  woman's  weakness  for  a  good-looking 
man. 

"  Will  Monsieur  permit  me  to  offer  him  a  glass  of 
wine?"  she  said,  stepping  briskly  up;  and  he  turned 
smiling,  quite  surprised  at  so  unexpected  a  courtesy. 

"A  thousand  thanks,  no,"  answered  the  young  man; 
"I  breakfasted  quite  recently." 

"We  have  not  much  to  offer,  but  if  Monsieur  deigns — " 

"  No,  thank  you  all  the  same.      I  will  just  make  the 


ACROSS   THE  HILLS  OF  NORMANDY.  25 

sketch  you  kindly  gave  me  permission  for,  and  withdraw 
at  once." 

To  account  for  Marcelline's  sudden  change  of  de- 
meanor we  must  here  record  that  her  greatest  weakness 
was  a  fondness  for  money,  and  having  heard  much  of 
English  liberality,  she  assumed  her  pleasantest  manner 
with  a  view  to  obtaining  some  personal  experience  thereof. 
Nor  was  she  disappointed,  for  when,  still  lingering,  she 
begged  him  to  remain  as  long  as  he  pleased,  Sir  Guy, 
with  an  intuition  of  what  was  expected  of  him,  placed  a 
most  liberal  douceur  in  her  unreluctant  palm. 

"This  is  a  lovely  spot,"  he  remarked,  and  Marcelline 
with  a  shrug  and  an  elevation  of  the  eyebrows  admitted 
that  it  was  "pretty  enough." 

Perhaps  she  found  it  a  little  dull,  Sir  Guy  suggested. 

"  Dull,  mon  Dieu  !  yes,  and  in  the  winter  cold  enough 
to  freeze  one.  The  wind  blows  in  hurricanes  off  the  hills, 
and  comes  in  at  the  windows,  which  are  not  too  secure 
against  the  currents  of  air." 

"Then  you  live  here  in  the  winter  too?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  all  the  four  seasons.  It  is  triste  enough  for 
old  people,  but  it  is  like  being  buried  alive  for  a  young 
creature  like  Mademoiselle,"  Marcelline  responded. 

She  knew  Paris  of  course  ?  the  young  man  surmised. 

Paris  !  dear  beautiful  Paris  !  ah,  how  well ! 

Had  she  been  in  the  picture  galleries  of  the  Louvre? 

Once,  years  ago, — she  did  not  remember  much  of  it. 

Had  she  by  chance  seen  a  picture  called  La  Cruche 
Cassee. 

Probably, — she  did  not  recollect  now. 

"Because,"  said  Sir  Guy,  "it  is  a  favorite  picture  of 
mine,  and  your  young  lady  here  is  the  exact  image  of  it, 
— I  would  give  five  napoleons  to  paint  her." 

"Monsieur  would  really  like  to  paint  Mademoiselle?" 
B  3 


,6  DOLORES. 

"There  is  nothing  I  should  like  so  much." 

"And  how  long  would  it  take,  monsieur?" 

"Three  days,  perhaps." 

Marcelline  began  to  reflect.  To  throw  away  five  na- 
poleons would  be  madness.  It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  the 
girl,  whose  life  was  dull  enough,  and  Madame  Power  need 
never  be  the  wiser  for  it. 

"  Is  Monsieur  serious?"  she  asked,  looking  furtively  at 
him  from  under  her  thick  eyebrows. 

Perfectly  so,  he  assured  her.  He  would  give  five  napo- 
leons into  her  hand  when  the  picture  was  made,  if  she 
would  procure  him  the  pleasure  of  painting  Mademoiselle. 

"And — and  Monsieur  had  no  other  object  than  the 
making  of  the  picture?"  shrewd  Marcelline  asked  with 
some  hesitation. 

None,  on  his  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman. 

Then  she  would  mention  it  to  Mademoiselle,  but  she 
knew  not  if  it  would  be  agreeable  to  her ;  and  Marcelline 
curtsied  and  went  off  to  the  house. 

Sir  Guy  looked  thoughtful. 

"These  Frenchwomen  are  not  to  oe  trusted,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  I  dare  say  the  mother  thought  she  was  leav- 
ing that  pretty  child  in  safe  hands  when  she  went  away, 
but  this  wretch  would  sell  her  to-morrow  for  gain."  But 
he  wronged  Marcelline  most  grievously,  for  the  worthy 
soul,  in  spite  of  her  fondness  for  money,  would  have  given 
her  life  rather  than  see  a  hair  of  her  charge's  head  injured. 
She  went  briskly  into  the  house,  where  Dolores  sat  before 
her  untouched  breakfast. 

"  What !  you  have  eaten  nothing,  little  dainty  one  !  No 
saucisson,  no  sardines,  no  radishes,  not  even  the  petit  pain 
sucrt  I  made  you?  Tiens i  I  shall  have  to  send  for  M, 
Dumesnil." 

"I  am  not  hungry." 


ACROSS   THE  HILLS  OF  NOXMANDY.  27 

"  It  is  the  heat.  Your  fine  Monsieur  will  not  eat  or 
drink  either.  He  is  a  gentleman,  par  cxemplc,  ce  Mon- 
sieur. ' ' 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  so?" 

"And  what  do  you  think  he  said, petite  f% 

"What  do  I  know?"  pouted  Dolores, 

"  He  said  you  were  like  a  picture  in  the  Louvre  in 
Paris,  and  he  would  like  to  paint  you." 

"  Oh,  Marcelline  !"  and  the  girl's  color  came  and  went. 
"Did  he  say  so?" 

"Yes;  but  of  course  I  said  it  was  impossible." 

"  I  hate  you,  Marcelline,"  cried  Dolores,  looking  ready 
to  cry. 

"But  what  would  your  mamma  say?  She  would  be 
ready  to  turn  me  away  for  only  letting  him  into  the 
garden." 

"  Mamma  need  not  know." 

"  But  there  are  Pierre  and  Jeanneton  !" 

"  Pierre  is  at  dinner,  and  Jeanneton  is  away  in  the  back 
kitchen." 

"But  a  picture  is  not  to  be  painted  all  in  one  day, 
petite." 

"  Dear,  good  Marcelline  !"  cried  the  girl,  jumping  up 
and  throwing  her  arms  round  the  substantial  form,  "  do 
let  my  picture  be  made.  I  will  be  so  good,  and  do  just 
as  you  tell  me  all  the  rest  of  the  time  until  mamma  comes 
home." 

"Voyons  /"  said  Marcelline.  "  On  one  condition  then, 
only.  I  sit  in  the  room  and  you  do  not  speak  one  word 
of  English." 

"I  promise,"  cried  Dolores,  ecstatically,  and  clapped 
her  hands  and  danced  about  in  unfeigned  glee. 

"Then  I  will  go  and  tell  him." 

"  But  stop,  Marcelline ;  I  cannot  be  painted  in  this  old 


aS  DOLORES. 

cotton  dress,"  and  the  girl's  face  fell.  "And  I  have  only 
my  gray  barege  and  my  white  muslin.  What  will  he 
think?" 

"  Perhaps  it  is  only  the  face  he  wants,  and  then  he  can 
fill  in  a  satin  or  velvet  gown  to  his  fancy,"  answered 
Marcelline,  thoughtfully. 

"  Go  and  ask  him."  And  the  woman  went  out,  leaving 
Dolores  in  a  state  of  troubled  uncertainty  as  to  whether 
the  stranger  would  refuse  to  paint  her  when  he  found  she 
had  no  grand  clothes. 

Presently  Marcelline  returned. 

"He  is  gone,  mademoiselle." 

"Gone!"  and  big  tears  gathered  in  the  childish  blue 
eyes,  as  Dolores  saw  her  worst  fears  realized. 

"  Silly  child  !  he  is  only  gone  to  fetch  his  portfolio.  He 
had  nothing  large  enough  to  paint  you  on.  He  will  be 
back  in  an  hour,  and  he  begs  you  to  keep  on  the  same 
dress  he  saw  you  in,  and  to  pass  a  blue  ribbon  through 
your  hair." 

"  Oh,  Marcelline,  I  am  so  happy !"  and  the  girl  tripped 
off  to  the  glass  to  make  the  desired  improvement. 


CHAPTER  III. 

HALCYON   DAYS. 

DOLORES  POWER  was  a  very  pretty  child, — pouting,  ca- 
ressing, rebellious,  pleading  by  turns;  sunshiny  and 
stormy  in  a  breath, — a  most  bewitching  plaything;  but 
like  a  kitten,  a  plaything  one  tires  of  in  time.  She  was 
very  sweet  in  her  innocence  and  guilelessness,  very  lova- 


HALCYON  DAYS. 


29 


ble,  although  she  was  frivolous  and  wanting  in  common 
sense,  only  one  felt  that,  unless  some  great  change  came 
over  her,  she  would  never  grow  into  a  companion,  never 
satisfy  that  craving  for  sympathy  that  a  man  feels  who 
comes  world-worn  and  weary  to  the  caressing  arms  and 
tender  heart  of  the  woman  who  loves  him.  As  yet  all 
was  shallow  on  the  surface  with  Dolores;  life  meant 
nothing  more  for  her  than  was  contained  in  the  little  out- 
side round  of  daily  events.  She  had  no  deep,  unsatisfied 
longings,  no  curiosity  of  the  soul,  no  ardent  desire  to  be 
anything  nobler,  better,  more  spiritual  than  she  was. 

A  walk  on  the  quay,  a  saunter  past  the  shops,  a  new 
dress  or  ribbon,  a  cake  from  the  confectioner's,  these  were 
Dolores's  aspirations,  Dolores's  pleasures,  beyond  which 
she  had  no  formed  thoughts  or  ideas.  Living  in  an  an- 
cient city  like  Rouen,  in  which  each  street,  each  house 
almost,  has  its  own  separate  chronicle  of  interest,  one 
would  have  imagined  that  her  young  mind  would  be  full 
of  curiosity  concerning  all  those  legends  and  traditions 
generally  so  dear  to  youth. 

But  Dolores  never  troubled  her  pretty  little  head  with 
vain  speculations  about  the  past ;  she  had  not  the  remotest 
interest  in  or  veneration  for  antiquity  and  historical  fame ; 
she  would  have  gone  fifty  times  through  the  Place  de  la 
Pucelle  without  wanting  to  know  who  Joan  of  Arc  was,  or 
what  she  did  for  France,  or  why  she  was  burnt.  It  did 
not  interest  her  in  the  least  that  Corneille  or  Fontenelle 
were  born  in  Rouen,  any  more  than  she  was  interested  in 
its  beautiful  architecture  or  historical  renown,  any  more 
than  she  bestowed  a  thought  on  the  grand  old  Norman 
dukes  or  the  lovely  women  once  owning  sway  there,  but 
long  since  mouldered  into  a  driblet  of  dust.  She  came 
sometimes  to  the  Cathedral,  but  in  a  vague,  unspeculative 
way. 

3* 


30  DOLORES. 

It  seemed  dull  and  gloomy  in  her  eyes.  The  perfection 
of  elegance  in  its  each  minute  detail  made  no  harmony 
to  her  by  its  perfection ;  the  grandeur  and  antiquity 
stamped  on  every  column  and  carving  inspired  no  rever- 
ence in  her  mind  ;  roused  in  her  no  reflections  upon  the 
nothingness  and  vanity  of  all  that  belongs  to  poor  mor- 
tality ;  made  no  strange  compassion  swell  in  her  heart  to 
remember  that  all  which  remained  of  the  puissant  men 
who  held  the  fate  of  kingdoms  in  their  hands  was  a  few 
grains  of  dust. 

She  flitted  here  and  there  with  a  sort  of  half  curiosity, 
tripped  after  the  old  beadle  to  ask  him  a  question  now 
and  then,  looked  indifferently  at  the  pictures,  cast  longer 
glances  at  the  magnificent  stained  windows,  listened  with  a 
yawn  to  his  eulogiums  on  the  carving  of  the  Archbishop's 
tombs,  and  ran  away  shuddering  when  he  pointed  out  Gou- 
jon's  wonderful  statue  of  Louis  de  Br6z£s,  cast  after  death. 
It  was  too  horrid,  she  declared,  and  if  Diane  de  Poic- 
tiers  was  like  the  kneeling  figure  on  the  tomb,  she  had 
certainly  never  been  beautiful. 

So  Dolores  lived  her  hitherto  uneventful,  untroubled 
life  up  in  the  white  house  above  Rouen.  Her  mother, 
silent  and  melancholy,  spent  most  of  the  day  in  her  room, 
and  the  girl  was  thrown  for  society  and  companionship 
upon  kind-hearted,  cheerful  Marcelline. 

Mrs.  Power  had  been  called  suddenly  to  England  a 
week  previous  to  the  date  at  which  my  story  commences, 
leaving  Rouen  the  first  time  for  fifteen  years. 

Sir  Guy  returned  even  before  the  hour,  and  was  ushered 
by  Marcelline  into  the  salon.  It  was  a  long,  narrow 
room,  with  four  windows  draped  by  red  curtains.  The 
floor  was  of  polished  wood,  having  in  the  centre  a  thick 
square  carpet ;  there  were  chairs  and  sofas  of  crimson 
velvet,  and  a  marble  mantelpiece,  decorated  with  the 


HALCYON  DAYS.  -jj 

usual  gilt  clock  and  ornaments.  A  few  good  pastels  hung 
upon  the  wall ;  in  one  corner  stood  a  small  rosewood 
piano,  with  music  lying  open  upon  the  desk ;  in  short, 
there  was  every  evidence  of  comfort  and  competence,  if 
not  of  wealth.  Sir  Guy,  glancing  around,  found  the  room 
charming ;  not  from  its  furniture  or  decorations,  but  from 
the  bright  visible  presence  of  nature,  sunshine,  and  spring. 
Great  china  bowls  stood  on  the  tables,  filled  with  lilies  of 
the  valley,  pink  hyacinths,  and  blue  forget-me-nots,  with 
here  and  there  an  early  rose  or  sprig  of  bright  geranium. 
Two  love-birds  cooed  and  chattered  together  in  their  cage 
by  the  window,  unprisoned  birds  sang  sweetly  in  the 
neighboring  trees,  glad  sunshine  streamed  through  every 
chink  where  it  could  gain  admittance,  and  down  below 
lay  the  sweetest,  most  peaceful  landscape  on  which  the 
tired  senses  of  man  ever  rested.  The  door  opened,  and 
Dolores  came  in  blushing  rosy  red,  and  looking  as  fresh 
and  simple  as  a  pink-tipped  daisy-bud. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  let  me  paint  you,"  said  Sir 
Guy,  smiling  with  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  her  sweet 
face. 

"It  is  you  who  are  kind,  monsieur.  But  will  you 
please  speak  in  French,  since  Marcelline  exacts  it  ?' '  and 
she  cast  a  glance  at  her  chaperon,  who  entered  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  went  to  station  herself  at  a  respectful  distance 
(but  not  out  of  hearing)  with  her  knitting. 

"Certainly,  if  Marcelline  desires  it,"  he  smiled,  con- 
ceiving a  better  opinion  of  her  from  that  moment.  "  But 
I  must  warn  you  that  I  have  sadly  forgotten  my  French.  " 

"Ah,  monsieur,  but  you  speak  very  well.  Not,  per- 
haps, quite  like  a  Frenchman,  but  still  so  that  one  under- 
stands perfectly." 

The  young  man  began  to  make  arrangements  for  the 
sketch. 


3  2  DOLORES. 

"Mademoiselle,  will  it  tire  you  too  much  if  I  ask  you 
to  stand?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  prefer  to  stand.  I  like  anything  better 
than  sitting, — that  tires  one  most." 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  place  you?  I  want  you  to 
look  just  like  the  picture  in  the  Louvre, — your  dress  held 
up  by  your  arms,  and  your  hands  one  in  the  other.  So ! 
We  ought  to  have  some  flowers.  Ah  !"  and  Guy  went  to 
the  china  bowl  and  pulled  out  the  cluster  of  apple-blossom 
he  had  seen  the  girl  pluck  the  day  before,  and  laid  them 
in  her  lap.  • .  • 

"  Monsieur  pardons  the  poorness  of  my  dress,  I  hope," 
said  Dolores,  shyly.  "  The  lady  in  the  picture,  without 
doubt,  was  very  differently  dressed." 

"  No,"  Guy  answered,  "  quite  simply.  Only  her  dress 
was  not  high  to  the  throat;  but  low,,  with  a  handker- 
chief tied  loosely  over  the  neck.  But  I  must  imagine 
your  pretty  shoulders,"  he  added. 

The  girl  blushed  like  a  crimson  rose.  Marcelline 
looked  up  from  her  knitting,  and  the  young  man  colored 
and  felt  quite  vexed  with  himself. 

"  Do  you  go  to  England  sometimes  ?"  he  asked  quickly. 

•'No,  never,  and  I  should  so  like  it." 

"Your  mamma  will  take  you  some  day,  perhaps." 

"Ah,  no!  Mamma  hates  England  and  the  English. 
Since  we  came  here  thirteen  years  ago,  she  has  never  been 
away  from  Rouen  a  day  until  now. ' ' 

"  Then  you  have  never  been  in  Paris  either?" 

"Ah,  no,  monsieur;"  and  Dolores  sighed.  "Is  it 
not  beautiful  ?  Marcelline  tells  me  it  is  twenty  times  as 
big  as  Rouen,  and  full  of  streets ! — oh,  much  finer,  and 
with  better  shops,  than  the  Rue  du  Grand  Pont  and  the 
Rue  des  Carmes." 

"Marcelline  is  quite  right,"  smiled  Guy.     "You  will 


HALCYON  DAYS. 


33 


be  so  charmed  with  the  Boulevards,  full  of  beautiful 
shops ;  and  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  the  Palais  Royal 
you  will  think  yourself  suddenly  transplanted  to  Alad- 
din's cave, — all  the  windows  are  full  of  diamonds  and 
rubies  as  big  as  a  bird's  egg." 

"Ah,  monsieur,  I  shall  never  see  that  wonderful  sight," 
and  the  little  maid  heaved  another  big  sigh. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will ;  and  some  day  when  I  am  walking 
there,  I  shall  meet  you,  and  stop  to  remind  you  how  once 
you  were  good  enough  to  stand  for  me  to  paint  you. 
And  then  you  will  go  to  the  Louvre  and  see  the  picture 
of  'La  Cruche  Cass6e,'  and  fancy  you  are  looking  in  the 
glass  all  the  while." 

Time  took  to  himself  wings  as  the  young  man  sketched 
and  talked ;  Marcelline  knitted  in  silence ;  and  Dolores 
stood,  the  shyest,  prettiest  of  models. 

"  I  must  not  tax  your  kindness  any  longer  to-day,"  he 
said,  at  last,  laying  down  his  pencil. 

"  May  I  look,  monsieur?"  and  the  model  came  forward 
with  eager  expectation  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  yet.  You  would  be  sadly  disgusted  if  I 
let  you  see  it  in  this  early  state.  I  wish  you  would  wait 
until  it  is  finished." 

Dolores  looked  disappointed. 

"  I  never  had  my  picture  made  in  all  my  life." 

"  Not  even  a  photograph  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  when  I  have  finished  this,  if  it  does  you  justice 
at  all,  I  will  make  a  copy  and  send  it  you." 

"Oh,  monsieur,  will  you  really?" 

"Certainly  I  will.  I  owe  you  something  for  your 
goodness  in  sitting  to  me." 

Marcelline  looked  up  quickly.     She  was  afraid  lest  he 
should  make  some  allusion  to  their  bargain. 
C 


34 


DOLORES. 


Guy  saw  the  look,  and  smiled  to  himself. 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  for  the  little  thing  to  know  I 
pay  for  painting  her,"  he  thought. 

Dolores  accompanied  him  to  the  door. 

"  Come    no    farther,    mademoiselle,"    cried    Marcel 
line.      "I  shall  unlock  the  gate  for  Monsieur."      But 
the  girl  paid  no  heed,  and  walked  down  the  avenue  by 
his  side. 

"  See,  monsieur,  how  pretty  are  all  these  blue  forget- 
me-nots,"  she  said,  stopping  before  a  great  sky-colored 
patch. 

"Will  you  give  me  one?" 

For  answer,  she  stooped  and  plucked  a  handful. 

"I  shall  put  them  away  with  my  treasures,"  he  said, 
smiling  at  her,  "  in  memory  of  this  pleasant  day."  Then 
they  reached  the  gate,  and  he  said  good-by  in  English, 
forgetting  Marcelline. 

"  Good-by,  monsieur.     You  will  come  to-morrow." 

"  I  would  not  leave  my  picture  unfinished  for  the 
world."  And  he  raised  his  hat  to  her  and  went  away,  with 
a  sweet  blushing  young  face  and  heaven-blue  eyes  engraven 
on  his  memory. 

Dolores  stood  watching  him  until  he  was  out  of  sight ; 
then  she  locked  the  gate,  and  sat  down  on  the  green 
bank,  her  eyes  half  closed,  her  lips  parted.  It  might  have 
been  a  day-dream  with  some  girls,  but  with  Dolores  it  was 
a  soft  sensation  of  pleasure,  like  that  which  a  kitten  feels 
lying  curled  up  in  the  sunshine.  In  the  child's  natuie 
there  slumbered  a  vein  of  passion  that  had  never  been 
aroused.  When  it  was  called  forth,  it  would  be  sudden, 
strong,  willful,  like  a  breath  of  hot  air ;  but  as  yet,  to-day, 
it  slumbered.  To-morrow  it  will  quicken,  day  by  day 
the  flame  will  be  fanned,  and  then, — poor  little  Dolores ! 
If  you  had  only  never  seen  this  good-looking  painter, 


HALCYON  DAYS. 


35 


never  had  the  misfortune  to  be  like  that  famous  picture 
in  the  Louvre  galleries  ! 

Guy  found  it  quite  impossible  to  complete  his  sketch  in 
three  days,  and  Marcelline,  having  received  the  promised 
bribe,  was  loth  to  hurry  such  a  liberal  Milor.  She  had 
misgivings  sometimes  about  his  visit  coming  to  Madame 
Power's  ears,  but,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Pierre  was  con- 
fined to  his  bed  with  rheumatism,  and  she  could  always 
manage  to  keep  Jeanneton  employed  in  the  back-kitchen 
while  the  painting  went  on. 

Nearly  a  fortnight  passed, — the  picture  was  not  even 
yet  completed,  and  Marcelline  began  to  regret  the  day 
when  she  had  been  tempted  to  show  hospitality  to  the 
handsome  stranger.  The  child  was  in  love  with  him, — 
in  love,  and  utterly  oblivious  of  anything  else  in  the 
world.  The  shrewd  Frenchwoman  knew  the  symptoms 
well  enough,  and  when  she  saw  the  little  one  silent  and 
preoccupied,  sitting  under  the  trees  in  the  garden,  and 
sometimes  smiling  unconsciously  to  herself,  or  running  to 
the  gate  an  hour  before  the  time  to  watch  for  Sir  Guy,  she 
would  wrinkle  her  forehead  and  smooth  her  apron  un- 
easily, saying  under  her  breath, — 

"  Mon  Dieu .'  what  will  become  of  the  little  one  when 
he  is  gone?"  When  Dolores  took  sudden  fancies  to  go 
into  the  town  and  wander  through  the  old  streets  she  had 
detested  before,  Marcelline  knew  what  it  all  meant,  she 
had  no  need  to  glance  at  the  blushing  face  when  by 
chance  they  met  the  young  Englishman  in  his  antiquarian 
researches.  He  would  join  them  with  a  smile,  and  send 
them  home  laden  with  the  prettiest  sweetmeats  from  the 
confectioner's,  or  ornaments  and  pictures  from  the  big 
shops, — anything  he  thought  the  pretty  simple  little  maid 
fancied.  Her  innocent  pleasure  smiling  out  through  clear 
eyes  was  delicious  to  him  who  had  seen  so  much  that  was 


3  6  DOLORES. 

artificial  in  the  world.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  him  to 
hear  the  spontaneous  utterance  of  her  every  thought,  al- 
though there  was  not  much  depth  or  indication  of  imagina- 
tion in  them.  She  was  glad,  she  was  sorry;  this  pleased, 
that  vexed  her.  There  was  no  disguise,  no  reticence, 
no  shadow  of  insincerity  about  her.  Marcelline  had  no 
longer  to  keep  Argus  eyes  opened  against  the  admiring 
glances  of  the  young  officers  or  students.  Dolores  never 
saw  them,  never  saw  anything  or  any  one  but  her  English- 
man, her  beau  Seigneur.  At  last,  when  the  good  woman 
noted  how  feverish  and  restless  her  charge  had  become, 
and  that  she  thought  of  nothing  in  the  world  but  the 
painting  hour,  and  was  fretful  and  silent  when  Sir  Guy 
had  gone,  she  took  a  determination. 

"I  am  going  out  this  afternoon,  mademoiselle,"  she 
said  one  day,  coming  down  the  garden  in  her  best  gown 
and  Sunday  cap. 

"Let  me  go  too,  Marcelline." 

"  It  is  not  possible,  mademoiselle." 

"Why  not?"  pouted  Dolores.  "Where  are  you 
going?" 

"First  into  the  church — it  is  the  day  of  the  Virgin, 
you  know,  and  the  altar  is  all  beautiful  with  white  flowers 
placed  by  the  good  sisters  and  the  school-children. ' ' 

"But  I  should  like  to  see  it  too,  Marcelline." 

"Ah,  if  it  were  only  that,  petite,  but  Madame  Lefevre, 
the  wife  of  the  marchand  de  vins,  has  asked  me  to  go  and 
see  her,  and  your  mamma  would  not  permit  me  to  take 
you  there." 

"  Then  let  me  stop  in  the  church  until  you  return, — no 
harm  could  come  to  me  there,  and  it  is  so  dull  here." 

"  Be  reasonable,  my  child.  For  once  let  poor  Marcel- 
line have  a  little  holiday  to  herself." 

"Then  go — go  1"  cried  Dolores,  turning  away  in  a  pet; 


HALCYON  DAYS. 


37 


and  Marcelline  went  out,  and  by  way  of  precaution  took 
the  key  with  her.  She  bent  her  steps  first  to  the  church, 
where,  conscience-stricken,  she  said  a  devout  prayer  to 
the  Virgin ;  then,  instead  of  going  to  visit  Madame  Le- 
fevre,  she  went  down  to  the  quay,  and  asked  at  the  Hotel 
d'Angleterre  for  Sir  Guy.  He  was  not  in,  the  waiter 
said,  but  she  could  speak  with  Monsieur's  valet  if  she 
pleased. 

While  Marcelline  hesitated,  Sir  Guy  came  in,  and, 
greeting  her  cordially,  invited  her  to  go  up  to  his  room. 

"Monsieur  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  take,"  Marcelline 
began,  feeling  very  nervous  and  uncomfortable. 

No  liberty  at  all,  the  young  man  declared ;  in  what 
way  could  he  serve  her  ?  Secretly  he  thought  to  himself 
she  had  come  to  get  some  more  money  out  of  him. 

"  Monsieur  will  remember,"  said  Marcelline,  fidgeting 
about,  "  that,  when  he  desired  to  paint  Mademoiselle,  he 
told  me  three  sittings  would  suffice  to  complete  the 
picture. ' ' 

It  was  quite  true,  Sir  Guy  assented. 

Monsieur  would  pardon  her ;  but  to-day  he  had  made 
his  twelfth  visit. 

Facts  are  stubborn  things.  Marcelline' s  statement  was 
perfectly  true,  and  the  young  man,  not  being  able  to  deny 
it,  remained  silent. 

"Is  it  not  so,  monsieur?" 

He  bowed.     "What  is  it  you  desire  of  me?" 

"  That  you  should  not  come  any  more,  monsieur." 

Sir  Guy  started,  and  a  shade  of  vexation  crossed  his 
brow. 

"Monsieur  does  not  lack  honor;  he  would  not  harm 
an  innocent  child?" 

"  God  forbid  1"  cried  the  young  man.  "What  do  you 
take  me  for?" 

4 


38  DOLORES. 

"Monsieur  does  not  understand  me.  I  do  not  fear  he 
would  wrong  the  little  one,  but — but — monsieur  is  a  great 
Seigneur,  and  sees  many  ladies,  and  the  child  never  saw 
any  one  in  her  life  but  him." 

"  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  I  look  upon  Miss 
Power  as  a  sister,"  cried  the  young  man.  "You  have 
always  been  present,  you  know  I  have  never  spoken  a 
word  to  her  that  could  deceive  her  into  any  other 
thought." 

"  That  is  all  quite  true,  monsieur,  but  the  poor  little 
one  loves  you  already  without  knowing  it ;  she  watches 
for  your  coming,  she  is  desolate  when  you  are  gone,  all 
her  days  are  spent  in  thinking  of  you,  and  she  is  no 
longer  gay  as  before." 

Sir  Guy  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment  before  he 
answered.  He  did  not  doubt  the  woman's  sincerity  for 
a  moment,  he  felt  she  was  right,  but  it  pained  him  to 
leave  the  pretty  child  who  had  won  his  fancy  without  a 
word. 

"I  am  not  to  see  her  any  more?"  he  said  slowly  at 
last. 

"If  Monsieur  would  send  Mademoiselle  an  excuse,— 
would  say  he  was  suddenly  called  away,"  Marcelline  said, 
hesitating. 

"I  understand,"  Sir  Guy  answered.  "I  will  do  as 
you  say." 

"Monsieur,  I  offer  you  a  thousand  thanks.  You  have 
a  good  heart."  And  Marcelline  turned  to  go. 

"Good-by,"  Sir  Guy  said,  shaking  her  hand;  and  the 
worthy  soul  in  some  confusion  wished  him  "bon  voyage." 

"  Man  DieuS"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  toiled  up  the 
Rue  d'Ernemont,  "  but  those  Englishmen  are  odd.  They 
understand,  though,  what  is  meant  by  honor." 


TEARS.  39 

CHAPTER  IV. 

TEARS. 

A  FEW  hours  later,  Dolores  was  standing  by  the  garden 
gate,  looking  wistfully  down  the  road,  when  a  stranger, 
whose  advancing  figure  she  had  been  listlessly  watching 
for  some  time,  paused  in  his  ascent  and  came  towards  her. 

"Miss  Power?"  he  said,  removing  his  cap. 

"Yes,  I  am  Miss  Power." 

Without  another  word  he  handed  her  a  note,  and,  re- 
placing his  cap,  turned  away. 

But  not  before,  with  the  curiosity  of  a  person  who  sees 
few  strange  faces,  Dolores  had  remarked  his  features  and 
bearing. 

"What  can  it  be?"  she  exclaimed,  trembling  with 
excitement  as  she  tore  open  the  note.  It  was  written  in 
English,  and  ran  thus: — 

"  DEAR  Miss  POWER, 

"I  greatly  regret  to  leave  Rouen  without  having  finished 
my  sketch  of  you,  but  I  am  suddenly  called  away  to  Paris, 
and  start  to-night.  I  have  to  thank  you  a  thousand  times 
for  your  kindness  and  patience  in  sitting  so  long  to  me, 
and  be  assured  that  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  fortnight  in 
Rouen  which  you  have  made  so  pleasant  for  me.  I  will 
as  soon  as  possible  send  you  a  copy  of  your  portrait,  and 
trust  you  will  pardon  me  if  I  have  not  been  happy  enough 
to  render  justice  to  so  sweet  an  original. 

"  Believe  me,  sincerely  yours, 

"Guv  WENTWORTH." 


40  DOLORES. 

A  sudden  chill  crept  over  the  girl  while  she  read,  as 
though  a  cloud  had  come  before  the  bright  sunshine  and 
made  everything  cold  and  dark.  The  color  died  out  of 
her  cheek, — she  leaned  against  the  gate  almost  gasping 
for  breath,  and  then  with  sudden  passion  she  flung  her- 
self upon  the  ground  sobbing  piteously.  So  Marcelline 
found  her  an  hour  later,  with  a  strange  conscience-stricken 
pang. 

"If  I  had  never  taken  his  money,"  she  muttered  to 
herself  in  a  troubled  voice.  "  If  for  the  hateful  gold  I 
should  have  sold  the  child's  happiness !  What  is  it, 
my  angel?"  she  said  softly,  coming  a  little  nearer  to  the 
stricken  form.  "  What  ails  thee,  chtrie  ?"  and  she  stooped 
down  and  tried  to  take  the  trembling  hand. 

"  Go  away,  go  away,"  sobbed  Dolores.  "  Do  not 
come  near  me.  I  don't  want  you!"  and  she  snatched 
herself  passionately  from  Marcelline's  kindly  grasp. 

"Tell  poor  Marcelline  what  grieves  thee,  little  one. 
Hast  thou  hurt  thyself?" 

"  He  is  gone,"  moaned  the  poor  child  piteously. 

"He?  But  who,  then?"  uttered  Marcelline,  feeling 
terribly  guilty  all  the  while. 

"  The  Englishman, — the  handsome  Sir  Guy,  and  I 
shall  never  see  him  any  more." 

"Does  he  say  so?"  asked  Marcelline,  glancing  at  the 
letter  Dolores  crushed  in  her  hand.     "But  you  know, 
little  one,  that  he  must  have  gone  some  time,  and  be 
fore  your  mamma  returned, — he  had  already  stayed  too 
long." 

"  If  he  had  only  come  to  say  good-by  to  me !  Oh,  he 
is  cruel  to  leave  like  that,  when  I  counted  the  hours  until 
he  should  come  again." 

"  Bah !  Men  are  all  cruel, — they  care  only  for  them- 
selves," said  Marcelline,  at  a  loss  how  to  console  her. 


TEARS.  41 

"He  is  not  cruel!"  cried  Dolores,  with  the  pettish 
contradiction  of  a  spoilt  child.  "  He  was  obliged  to  go 
away  suddenly — to  Paris." 

"  He  will  come  again,  perhaps,"  uttered  Marcelline  in 
a  soothing  voice.  "  Paris  is  not  so  far." 

"How  far?" 

"  Two  hours  and  a  half  by  the  grandc  vitesse;  Madame 
Lescaut  told  me  last  week." 

And  then  there  was  silence  again,  only  broken  by  the 
child's  intermittent  sobs,  coming  like  the  last  thunder- 
claps in  a  storm. 

"  Hush,  little  one,"  said  Marcelline  at  last,  putting  her 
finger  to  her  lips  as  steps  were  heard  along  the  gravel 
walk ;  "here  comes  Jeanneton,  and  she  is  curious,  like  all 
the  deaf.  Do  not  let  her  see  you,  I  pray." 

Dolores  rose  with  a  bound,  and  ran  up  the  side  avenue 
of  nut-trees  that  led  to  the  back  of  the  house,  while  Mar- 
celline unlocked  the  gate. 

"Was  that  Mademoiselle  I  saw  lying  on  the  grass?" 
asked  Jeanneton. 

' '  Yes, ' '  responded  the  other,  somewhat  fiercely.  ' '  What 
then?" 

Jeanneton  shook  her  head. 

"Ah!  it  was  like  that  I  became  deaf,  lying  on  the 
damp  grass  in  the  spring." 

"  But  the  grass  isn't  damp  to-day." 

"  One  never  knows.  And  there  were  drops  of  rain  on 
the  kitchen  windows." 

"  Bah  !  that  was  when  I  watered  the  flowers.  Good- 
night, Jeanneton.  Come  early  to-morrow."  And  Marcel- 
line shut  the  gate  with  an  angry  click,  feeling  remorseful 
about  her  charge. 

"The  little  one  will  get  over  it,"  she  said  to  herself, 
tapping  the  bars  with  the  key;  "in  a  month,  a  week, 

4* 


42  DOLORES. 

perhaps,  she  will  have  forgotten  him.  Ah !  I  remember 
when  I  was  seventeen,  how  I  grieved  after  the  beau  Ca- 
poral  who  went  off  to  the  wars ;  but  I  forgot  him  in  a 
few  weeks,  for  Defaux,  the  butcher,  who  was  short  and 
fat,  and  had  no  waist  at  all, — only  I  don't  know  where 
Mademoiselle  is  to  get  another  lover,  since  Madame  will 
not  let  a  man  have  his  nose  inside  the  gate.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
if  she  finds  out  about  this  Englishman,  and  the  little  one 
is  entetee  enough  to  tell  her,  then  I  may  pack  my  clothes 
and  go.  Well,  I  should  have  only  the  regret  of  leaving 
the  child." 

The  days  went  on,  but  Dolores  showed  no  symptoms 
of  forgetting.  The  poor  child  had  all  the  more  power  of 
suffering  impatient  pain  and  desolation  because  she  had 
no  resources  in  her  own  mind.  It  was  that  impotent,  un- 
bearable anger  of  pain  that  makes  the  new-prisoned  bird 
maim  his  wings  and  beat  his  life  out  against  fast-locked 
bars. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it ! — I  cannot  bear  it !  Oh  !  if  I  could 
only  die  !"  she  repeated  ceaselessly  to  herself,  burying 
her  poor  tear-stained  face  in  the  sofa  cushions,  and  stamp- 
ing her  weary  little  feet  on  the  wooden  floor. 

It  was  the  third  day  since  she  had  seen  him,  and  she 
had  scarcely  touched  food  or  slept.  A  sudden  thought 
came  to  her,  and  she  jumped  up,  her  face  all  aflame,  her 
hands  clasped. 

"  I  will  go  to  him  !"  and  her  heart  beat  wildly.  "  He 
will  not  send  me  away, — he  will  let  me  be  his  servant, 
perhaps, — anything,  only  to  be  near  him,  to  see  his  kind 
smile  sometimes.  If  he  will  not  have  me,  I  will  drown 
myself." 

The  poor,  ignorant,  willful  child  began  to  lay  her  plans. 
To-morrow  Marcelline  would  be  gone  out,  it  was  her 
marketing-day ;  she  would  be  absent  at  least  two  hours. 


TEAKS. 


43 


The  moment  her  back  was  turned,  she,  Dolores,  would  tie 
on  her  hat,  and  run  down  by  the  other  longer  road  to  the 
town,  and  take  the  train  for  Paris.  She  did  not  quite 
know  where  the  station  was,  but  she  had  heard  Marcelline 
say  it  was  somewhere  beyond  the  barracks.  And  for 
money — there  was  gold  her  mother  had  left  in  Marcelline's 
work-box,  and  she  always  kept  the  key  for  safety  at  the 
bottom  of  the  old  china  vase  in  the  salon.  What  if  it 
were  stealing !  She  would  never  cost  them  any  more 
money  after  that,  and  there  was  a  frightened  sob  in  her 
voice  as  she  spoke  the  words  half  aloud.  Should  she 
write  and  leave  a  letter  to  say  what  she  had  done  ?  No  ! 
for  once,  a  long  time  ago,  she  had  read  in  a  book  how  a 
young  girl  had  left  her  home  and  pinned  a  letter  of  fare 
well  on  the  pincushion  ;  and  through  it,  had  been  traced, 
and  brought  home,  and  shut  in  her  room  for  whole  years 
without  speaking  to  a  soul.  Her  mother  was  a  harsh 
woman,  quite  capable  of  that. 

Dolores  went  about  quite  blithe  when  her  resolve  was 
taken.  Poor  child  !  had  she  been  able  to  realize  the 
nature  of  the  step  she  contemplated,  her  mind  would  have 
been  full  of  terror  and  misgiving ;  but  she  felt  no  doubts 
or  fears  yet,  and  Marcelline,  noting  the  sudden  alteration 
in  her  manner,  said  to  herself, — 

"Ah  !  she  begins  to  forget,  as  I  forgot  my  caporal. 
Truly  one  need  not  trouble  one's  head  for  the  tears  of 
children." 

Dolores  did  not  sleep  that  night ;  and  when,  the  next 
morning,  she  came  down-stairs  wide-eyed,  with  dilated 
pupils,  and  wandered  nervously  from  room  to  room, 
a  kind  of  repressed  excitement  in  her  manner,  Marcelline 
was  uneasy,  and  said, — 

"  What  hast  thou,  my  child  ?  Thou  hast  eaten  nothing, 
and  lookst  as  if  thou  hadst  not  slept." 


44  DOLORES. 

"Oh,  yes,  ma  bonne,  I  have  slept  all  night,  "said 
Dolores,  eagerly,  "  and  nothing  ails  me." 

"  Thou  art  triste,  little  one ;  thou  shall  come  with  me 
to  the  market  to-day." 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  Dolores.  Then,  fearful  of  betray- 
ing herself,  she  added, — "I  care  not  for  the  market;  it 
wearies  me  to  stand  while  you  gossip  with  the  people  in 
the  shop." 

"I  gossip,  mademoiselle!"  cried  Marcelline,  indig- 
nantly. "If  every  one  minded  their  business  as  I  mind 
mine,  the  town  would  not  be  set  by  the  ears." 

"Don't  be  angry,  Marcelline;  I  did  not  mean  to 
offend  you, — only  I  don't  want  to  go.'1' 

Never  had  a  morning  appeared  so  long  before.  The 
hands  on  the  gilt  clock  seemed  to  the  girl's  impatient  eyes 
not  to  move  at  all  as  she  wandered  twenty  times  in  and 
out  of  the  salon  during  an  hour.  She  tried  to  play  and 
sing,  but  voice  and  fingers  refused  their  office  in  her 
tremulous  nervousness ;  she  sauntered  into  the  garden  to 
pluck  flowers  for  the  vases,  but  stopped  before  she  had 
gathered  a  handful,  thinking, — 

"Aquoibon?  To-morrow  I  shall  not  be  here."  She 
bid  adieu  a  hundred  times  to  her  furry  cat  and  the  French 
poodle.  "  I  shall  never  see  you  any  more, — never — 
never!"  And  she  squeezed  them  in  her  arms  and  cried 
a  little. 

Puss,  responsive,  emitted  a  great  roll  of  purs,  and  the 
poodle  walked  across  the  room  on  his  hind  legs  after  her 
without  being  told.  But  at  last  the  clock  stood  on  the 
stroke  of  four,  and  Marcelline,  who  was  punctuality  itself, 
appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"Good-by,  Marcelline,"  said  the  child,  throwing  hei 
arms  round  the  woman's  neck,  hardly  able  to  keep  from 
betraying  herself. 


TEARS. 


45 


"  Why,  I  am  not  going  on  a  journey,  cherie,  that  you 
should  make  me  such  an  adieu,"  responded  Marcelline, 
pleased,  nevertheless,  at  the  demonstration;  "in  two 
hours  I  shall  be  back." 

The  moment  she  was  gone  Dolores  flew  to  her  room, 
donned  her  best  gray  barege  and  hat,  and  set  off  for  the 
station.  She  was  in  too  hot  haste  to  feel  any  nervousness 
or  trepidation  until  she  reached  the  railway,  and  then  the 
noise  and  bustle  frightened  her, — the  shouting  of  porters, 
the  luggage  being  flung  about, — all  the  turmoil  that  seems 
quite  regular  and  in  order  to  the  accustomed  traveler, 
filled  her  with  terror.  It  was  some  time  before  she  found 
courage  to  ask  how  soon  the  train  left ;  and  when  she  at 
last  addressed  herself,  timid  and  blushing,  to  a  stout,  red- 
faced  guard,  he  took  no  notice  of  her  beyond  a  stare. 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  know,  mademoiselle?"  asked 
a  dark-bearded  man,  with  a  fascinating  smile  that  fright- 
ened Dolores  much  more  than  the  other  one's  rudeness. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  when  the  train  leaves  for  Paris?"  she 
asked  with  a  faltering  voice,  ready  to  cry. 

"For  Paris?  In  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  Does 
Mademoiselle  propose  to  herself  to  go  there  alone?" 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  stammered  Dolores. 

"Ah!  Now  if  only  Mademoiselle  were  going  to 
Amiens,  I  should  have  been  charmed  to  offer  my  escort," 
said  the  stranger,  with  a  familiar  leer.  "I  am  quite  des- 
olate not  to  be  able  to  serve  Mademoiselle."  And  as  the 
guard  began  to  shout  frantically, — "  En  voiture,  messieurs 
et  mesdames !"  he  had  to  hurry  off  without  more  ado. 

"Three-quarters  of  an  hour  !"  the  child  said  to  herself 
in  dismay.  "If  Marcelline  should  have  returned  to  the 
house  and  found  me  gone,  she  might  come  here  to  look 
for  me,  or  some  one  who  knows  me  might  see  and  stop  me. ' ' 
And  she  tried  to  look  down,  and  hide  her  face  under  her 


40  DOLORES. 

straw  hat,  but  could  not  baffle  the  inquisitive  or  imperti- 
nent glances  of  the  men  who  lounged  about  and  ogled  her. 

Then  there  was  the  terrible  business  of  taking  her 
ticket;  and  when  she  saw  the  gold  and  notes  flung 
through  the  pigeon-hole,  a  sudden  fear  took  possession  of 
her  that  the  one  napoleon  she  had  stolen  from  Marcel- 
line's  work-box  would  be  insufficient  to  pay  for  her  journey. 
Perhaps  if  she  asked  for  a  ticket,  and  then  had  not  enough 
money,  some  of  those  rough,  dreadful-looking  men  might 
be  rude  to  her,  and  turn  her  out  of  the  station,  or  even 
put  her  into  prison.  She  underwent  torments  of  fear  and 
anxiety. 

After  a  time,  summoning  up  all  her  courage,  she  went 
and  asked  the  price  of  a  ticket  to  Paris.  It  was  fifteen 
francs,  and  the  official  who  gave  it  to  her  was  polite. 
At  last,  after  what  seemed  an  age  to  her  feverish  anxiety, 
she  was  in  the  train,  and  on  her  way  to  Paris. 

In  the  carriage  with  her  were  two  good-natured-looking 
women,  who  began  to  ask  questions. 

"  To  what  part  of  Paris  are  you  going,  mademoiselle?" 
said  one. 

Dolores  blushed  scarlet,  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  do  not  know,  madame." 

"You  are  very  young  to  travel  alone,"  interposed  the 
second.  "  But  of  course  your  friends  will  meet  you?" 

"I  do  not  know,  madame,"  stammered  Dolores  again. 

"  But,  man  Dieu  !  mademoiselle,  you  cannot  go  wan- 
dering over  Paris  by  yourself." 

The  girl  felt  a  vague  terror  lest  these  women  should 
insist  on  finding  out  all  about  her,  and  taking  her  back 
to  Marcelline;  so  she  turned  resolutely  to  the  window 
and  looked  out,  while  her  two  companions  glanced  at 
each  other,  shook  their  heads,  and  thought  there  was 
something  very  strange  about  her. 


GUY  MEETS  HIS  FATE. 


47 


The  train  whizzed  past  the  green  fields  and  rows  of 
trees,  past  the  high  hills  and  the  winding  Seine,  past 
stately  white  chateaux,  inclosed  in  thick  forests  and 
avenues  of  handsome  trees,  and  drew  up  at  last,  just  as 
the  dusk  was  falling,  into  the  St.  Lazare  station  of  the 
beautiful  city.  There  was  a  banging  of  doors,  a  clamor 
of  voices,  a  hurrying  to  and  fro,  and  with  a  beating, 
terrified  heart,  the  child  found  herself  pushed  and  hustled, 
not  knowing  which  way  to  turn.  At  last  she  was  in  the 
street,  cowering,  shrinking,  stared  at,  filled  for  the  first 
time  with  a  desperate  fear  lest,  in  this  great  city,  she  might 
wander  hopelessly  without  finding  the  man  she  sought. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  her  before  that  there  would  be 
any  doubt  of  her  meeting  Sir  Guy.  He  was  in  Paris, — 
she  would  go  after  him;  and  there  the  poor  childish 
reasoning  had  ceased. 


CHAPTER   V. 

GUY   MEETS   HIS   FATE. 

SIR  GUY  WENTWORTH  experienced  a  decided  feeling 
of  chagrin  at  leaving  Rouen  without  completing  his 
picture  and  bidding  adieu  to  his  pretty  little  friend. 
Something  in  her  had  charmed  him, — her  sweet  inno- 
cence, perhaps,  and  the  child  face  that  mirrored  every 
thought  of  the  simple  heart.  He  recognized  the  shallow- 
ness  of  her  nature  without  regretting  it,  since  to  him  she 
was  only  a  pretty  child  who  had  made  a  pleasant  land- 
mark in  the  old  city,  and  whom  he  should  never  see 
again.  Still  he  would  have  liked  to  bid  her  farewell,  to 


48  DOLORES. 

go  once  more  up  to  the  Barriere  d'Ernemont  and  see  her 
at  the  gate  watching  for  his  coming  and  blushing  with 
rosy  gladness  when  he  came.  What  man  is  insensible  to 
the  charm  of  being  watched  and  waited  for,  of  being 
greeted  with  bright  eyes  and  glad  smiles  ?  But  after  Mar- 
celline's  words  to  him,  he  felt  bound  in  honor  to  leave 
Rouen  without  seeing  Dolores  again,  even  though  he  was 
convinced  that  the  woman's  fears  had  run  in  advance  of 
the  reality.  He  would  be  the  last  to  bring  tears  to  those 
trustful  blue  eyes. 

Guy  had  his  own  ideas  of  the  devoir  of  an  English 
gentleman,  and  acted  very  fairly  up  to  his  standard, — to 
do  as  you  would  be  done  by,  to  hold  out  a  helping  hand 
to  friends  in  need,  to  be  tender  and  courteous  with 
women,  liberal  to  the  poor,  and  a  fair  landlord. 

A  man  with  ten  thousand  a  year  holding  such  views  is 
pretty  sure  to  be  popular,  and  in  spite  (perhaps  because 
of)  a  few  frailties  the  disciples  of  Mrs.  Hannah  More 
would  have  sat  in  judgment  on,  Guy  was  a  very  general 
favorite  both  with  men  and  women.  Nobody  ever  accused 
him  of  being  very  clever  or  a  pattern  young  man,  but 
among  those  who  knew  him,  if  any  one  had  been  at  a 
loss  to  illustrate  the  meaning  of  the  word  gentleman,  I 
think  Guy  would  have  been  the  first  to  present  himself 
to  the  mind.  He  left  Rouen  with  decided  regret,  but 
with  no  hesitation,  after  Marcelline's  appeal.  He  had 
gone  on  staying  day  after  day  in  the  old  town,  because 
the  society  of  this  little  girl  had  pleased  him ;  further- 
more, because  the  country  was  pretty,  the  air  fine,  and 
for  the  present  he  had  nothing  in  particular  to  do.  Now 
he  was  forced  to  make  some  fresh  plans,  he  did  not  care 
to  be  in  Paris  alone ;  he  did  not  want  to  return  to  London 
for  a  week  or  two,  so  he  took  up  his  quarters  at  the 
H6tel  Westminster,  and  wrote  to  his  half-brother,  Cap- 


GUY  MEETS  HIS  FATE. 


49 


tain  Adrian  Charteris,  to  join  him,  if  he  had  nothing 
better  to  do. 

Breakfast  over  the  next  morning,  he  lights  a  cigar,  and 
strolls  out  into  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  thinking  a  good  deal 
more  of  the  pretty  blue-eyed  maiden  than  he  would  care 
to  own.  She  was  a  sweet  simple  little  thing,  with  her 
clear  child-like  ways,  transparent  to  the  very  soul  through 
those  clear  eyes  of  hers. 

"If  one  didn't  know,"  he  muses,  as  he  strolls  along, 
"  that  those  pretty  little  creatures,  with  their  sweet,  win- 
ning, kitten-like  ways,  only  keep  their  charm  as  long  as 
they  are  quite  fresh  and  new  !  But  how  one  would  weary 
of  the  loveliest  face  in  the  world  that  had  no  mind  at  the 
back  of  it ! — that  laughed  when  it  was  pleased,  and  cried 
when  it  was  sorry,  and  had  only  one  selfish,  unreasoning 
consciousness  of  its  own  pains  and  pleasures,  and  none 
of  that  tact  and  sympathy  that  make  a  woman  such  a 
sweet  companion  for  a  man !  I'm  not  a  David  Copper- 
field.  A  Dora  would  wear  my  patience  out  in  a  month. 
Poor  dear  little  soul !  I  wonder  if  she  will  really  take 
my  going  to  heart  at  all  ?  My  letter  to  her  was  such  a 
cold,  unsatisfactory  thing, — almost  brutal,  to  a  poor  little 
child  like  that,  whom  it  seems  ridiculous  to  treat  with 

so  much  formality.    I  wish  I  might There  wouldn't  be 

any  harm  in  it — by  Jove  !  I'll  get  that  for  her,"  he  says, 
stopping  before  a  jeweler's  window,  where  a  gold  locket, 
set  with  pearls,  has  arrested  his  wandering  eyes.  "  Poor 
little  girl !  I  dare  say  it  will  make  up  for  the  loss  of 
me.  How  pretty  it  will  look  round  her  dear  little  white 
throat !"  And  he  turns  to  enter  the  shop,  when  a  hand 
is  laid  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  How  are  you,  Guy?" 

"What,  you  here,  Vivian  !"     And  the  two  men  grasp 
hands  heartily.     "  Where  are  you  staying  ?" 
D  5 


50  DOLORES. 

"At  the  Westminster?" 

"So  am  I." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"  I  came  from  Rouen  last  night." 

" Rouen  !     What  the  deuce  were  you  doing  there?" 

"  Oh,  only  spoiling  a  few  pages  of  my  sketch-book." 

"  How  long  did  you  stop?" 

"About  a  fortnight,"  answers  Guy,  a  little  confused. 

The  other  looks  at  him  shrewdly. 

"Were  you  sketching  landscapes  or  faces?"  he  asks, 
smiling.  Then,  linking  his  arm  in  Guy's, — "  Come  and 
have  some  lunch." 

"My  dear  fellow,  it  isn't  two  hours  since  I  break- 
fasted." 

"  Never  mind  ;  you  needn't  eat  anything.  My  wife  is 
sure  to  want  to  see  you,  and  I'll  introduce  you  to  a  very 
charming  woman." 

"Thanks;  but " 

"  But  you  don't  care  about  charming  women.  Never 
mind ;  come  and  see  this  one.  Only  for  heaven's  sake 
don't  fall  in  love  with  her.  She  is  an  awful  flirt,  and 
lives  upon  broken  hearts." 

"  Then  I'm  afraid  she  won't  find  me  amusing.  I'm  a 
poor  hand  at  making  love  to  fashionable  women.  But 
how  is  Mrs.  Vivian  ?" 

"Oh,  as  capricious  and  worrying  as  ever,"  emphatic- 
ally. "If  God  made  man,  I'm  sure  the  devil  made 
women, — confound  them  !" 

"  What,  the  old  story  !"  laughs  Guy. 

"  Of  course,  the  old  story,  or  I  shouldn't  be  boring  my 
life  out  here,  just  when  the  country  is  at  its  best." 

"What  induced  you  to  come?" 

"Why,  I  mean  to  po  to  Norway  this  summer,  so  I'm 
paving  the  way  by  giving  in  to  my  wife  a  little." 


GUY  MEETS  HIS  FATE.  51 

"I  see,  but  you  don't  say  how  she  is? — in  health  I 
mean." 

"  Perfectly  well,  of  course  ;  but  pretending  to  be  deli- 
cate, as  usual.  Guy,  my  boy,  take  experience  you  haven't 
bought  for  once,  and  don't  marry." 

"  I  don't  intend  to  do  so." 

"  I  didn't,  either,  but  that  doesn't  make  any  difference. 
You  meet  a  woman,  a  madness  seizes  you,  you  must  have 
her,  so  you  marry  her,  if  she  unhappily  can't  get  anybody 
better,  and  lament  it  ever  after." 

"And  if  she  won't  have  you,"  laughs  Guy,  "you  la- 
ment her  all  your  life  as  the  only  woman  you  ever  could 
have  cared  for." 

"  A  man  consoles  himself  for  a  lost  love,"  responds  his 
friend,  contemptuously,  "but  never  for  lost  freedom." 

"The  old  story!"  thought  Guy.  "  What  a  pity  two 
people,  both  very  nice  in  their  way,  can't  hit  it  off  better  !" 

"Here  we  are!"  says  Mr.  Vivian,  opening  the  door 
of  a  sitting-room.  "Gertrude,  here's  Guy!  Where's 
Milly?" 

A  fair  woman,  pretty,  if  a  little  pass&e,  comes  forward 
quickly,  saying,  with  unfeigned  pleasure,  "  Oh,  Guy ! 
how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  J" 

Then  follow  a  whole  string  of  questions.  Mrs.  Vivian 
is  not  the  least  inclined  to  let  him  off  about  his  visit  to 
Rouen,  as  her  husband  has  done.  Guy  is  getting  con- 
fused, when  Mr.  Vivian  rushes  to  the  rescue. 

"Confound  it,  Gertrude"  (impatiently),  "do  change 
the  subject.  One  would  have  thought  you  had  lived  long 
enough  in  the  world  to  know  that  it  is  not  discreet  to 
press  unmarried  men  with  so  many  questions." 

"Or  married  ones  either,  perhaps!"  retorts  his  wife, 
with  a  touch  of  sarcasm. 

"If  that  is  intended  for  me,  let  me  assure  you  that  my 


52  DOLORES. 

experience  of  one  of  the  sex  has  never  tempted  me  to 
pursue  my  researches  further." 

"As  great  a  bear  as  ever,  you  see,  Guy!"  says  Mrs. 
Vivian,  coloring  a  little,  for  this  attached  couple  never 
spare  their  friends  a  "scene  of  domestic  interest." 

"  He  always  was  a  shocking  bad  fellow !"  laughs  Guy, 
good-humoredly,  anxious  to  divert  retort. 

"Ah,  my  dear  boy,  it's  deuced  easy  for  you  fellows  to 
be  always  good-tempered  and  pleasant,  you've  nothing  to 
try  you.  A  lame  horse,  a  run  of  bad  luck  on  the  turf,  your 

servants  rob  you ;  what's  that  in  comparison  with ah  ! 

well,  least  said  soonest  mended,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  at  all,"  interrupts  his  wife,  sharply.  "  Now  you 
have  favored  us  with  so  much,  we  should  like  to  hear  the 
rest." 

Fortunately,  at  this  juncture  the  servant  appears  with 
lunch.  Guy  seats  himself  obediently  at  the  table,  with  a 
glass  of  claret  and  a  biscuit,  while  Mrs.  Vivian  regales 
him  with  a  dozen  little  scandals  fresh  from  home.  The 
door  opens  again,  and  some  one  comes  in  quietly, — some 
one  whose  eyes  meet  Guy's  as  he  rises.  She  impresses 
him,  even  at  that  first  glance,  not  that  she  is  beautiful, 
but  there  is  a  nameless  grace,  a  perfect  ease,  an  elegance 
about  her  that  instinctively  attract  him. 

"  Milly,  this  is  my  old  friend  Guy  Wentworth, — you 
have  often  heard  me  speak  of  him  ?  Mrs.  Scarlett,  Sir  Guy 
Wentworth." 

She  smiles  at  him,  and  says,  "  I  have  often  heard  of 
ycu."  And  Guy  thinks,  What  a  charming  voice! 

Mrs.  Scarlett  takes  the  chair  Mr.  Vivian  has  placed  for 
her,  and  begins  to  eat.  Guy  is  divided  between  a  desire 
to  look  at  her  and  the  feeling  that  it  is  not  usual  or  polite 
to  stare  at  people  when  they  are  eating. 

"I  am  afraid  I'm  rather  late,"  she  says. 


GUY  MEETS  HIS  FATE. 


53 


"Time  was  made  for  slaves,"  responds  Mr.  Vivian. 
"  Surely  no  man  would  be  so  unreasonable  as  to  expect  a 
lady  to  take  count  of  time  during  a  shopping  expedition  ?" 

"I  feel  the  rebuke." 

"No  rebuke  intended,  I  assure  you.  I  am  only  too 
charmed  to  think  you  are  amused.  But  seriously,  I  won- 
der how  many  years  of  her  life  a  woman  spends  in  shop- 
ping?" 

"Years!  how  absurd  you  are,  Charles!"  Mrs.  Vivian 
interrupts. 

"  Not  at  all  absurd :  if  the  average  of  people  who  live 
to  seventy  sleep  twenty-three  years,  and  eat  for  eight,  it 
is  not  difficult  to  imagine  that  a  woman  may  get  through 
a  considerable  number  at  her  milliner's  and  haberdasher's." 

"  Well,  and  if  we  do,  a  very  good  thing  too  ! — it  makes 
time  seem  wonderfully  short ;  and  how  on  earth  should 
we  get  through  if  we  didn't  amuse  ourselves  in  some  way?" 

"  Improving  your  mind  !"  with  a  dash  of  sarcasm. 

"  Unfortunately,  as  you  say,  I  have  no  mind  to  im- 
prove," retorts  Mrs.  Vivian. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  men  are  so  totally  indifferent 
to  dress,"  says  Mrs.  Scarlett,  coming  to  the  rescue; 
"though  I  wouldn't  for  an  instant  accuse  you  of  such 
lightness"  (with  a  comic  little  glance  at  Mr.  Vivian,  who 
prides  himself  upon  not  giving  in  to  modern  innovations). 
"  You  see,  men  have  so  little  scope  for  fancy  in  their 
present  dress ;  but,  in  the  good  old  times,  when  they  were 
allowed  to  wear  silks  and  velvets  and  laces,  to  paint  their 
faces  and  put  on  patches,  I  dare  say  they  thought  almost 
as  much  about  dress  as  we  do." 

"  I  like  to  see  ladies  nicely  dressed,"  says  Guy,  feeling 
a  desire  to  be  on  Mrs.  Scarlett's  side,  whatever  turn  the 
discussion  may  take. 

"  So  do  all  sensible  men,"  she  answers,  smiling  at  him. 
5* 


34  DOLORES. 

"  Oh,  nicely  dressed  is  another  matter.  But  what  do 
you  mean  by  nicely? — because  a  woman  may  be  nicely 
dressed  in  a  cotton  gown." 

"A  woman  might,  not  a  lady,"  maintains  Guy.  "  Silk 
and  lace  and  velvet  are  proper  wear  for  ladies"  (after  a 
surreptitious  glance  at  Mrs.  Scarlett's  costume,  which  is 
composed  of  all  three). 

"  Then  you  get  from  nice  to  extravagant !" 

"  No,  not  extravagant,"  says  Guy,  warming  to  his  ar- 
gument. "I'll  change  my  sentence  if  I  must,  and  say  I 
like  to  see  a  lady  handsomely  dressed." 

"And  I  say  that  women  think  too  much  about  dress, 
and  spend  a  great  deal  too  much  money  upon  it.  No 
man  thinks  any  the  better  of  them  for  it, — only  a  few  fools 
who  like  to  encourage  them  in  their  vanity  !" 

"  Do  you  admit  the  soft  impeachment,  Sir  Guy?"  asks 
Mrs.  Scarlett,  lifting  her  long  lids  and  looking  at  him 
with  smiling  eyes. 

Guy  feels  an  enormous  magnetic  attraction  towards  her, 
— he  would  like  to  sit  and  stare  at  her  without  saying  a 
word.  He  is  so  entranced  at  meeting  her  eyes  that  he 
almost  forgets  to  answer  for  a  moment.  She  is  obliged 
to  say,  "Do  you?"  again,  and  drop  her  eyes,  while  the 
faintest  trace  of  color  mounts  to  her  cheek. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Do  I Oh,  yes — do  I  admit 

that  I  am  a  fool?  Certainly,"  he  answers,  a  little  con- 
fused. "  I  think  women  ought  to  have  everything  that 
is  rare  and  costly  and  luxurious,  particularly  if  they  are 
handsome  and  elegant." 

"I  don't  follow  you  there,"  interposes  Mr.  Vivian. 
"  If  a  woman  is  handsome  and  elegant,  what  does  she 
want  of  adventitious  circumstances?  Give  the  adorn- 
ments to  the  plain  and  ill-formed,  who  need  them." 

"  Oh,  I  would  give  them  to  the  whole  sex,  if  it  were 


GUY  MEETS  HIS  FATE. 


55 


in  my  power,"  says  Guy.  "They  are  all  charming  in 
some  way  or  other."  And  he  feels  honestly  as  if  he 
thought  so  for  the  moment,  after  another  stolen  glance 
at  Mrs.  Scarlett,  who  is  exercising  a  sort  of  witchery 
over  him. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  must  be  very  much  in  love  with 
one  woman,  to  have  such  rose-colored  sentiments  towards 
the  whole  sex." 

"I !"  And,  to  his  intense  disgust,  Guy  feels  himself 
blushing  like  a  school-girl. 

"  Your  face  betrays  you,"  laughs  Mrs.  Vivian.  "  Come, 
confess,  Guy.  Was  there  not  some  lovely  young  woman 
who  kept  you  all  that  long  time  in  Rouen  ?" 

"Indeed,"  stammers  Guy,  feeling  vexed,  for  some  un- 
accountable reason,  at  the  allusion  being  made  before 
Mrs.  Scarlett ;  but  her  soft  voice  interrupts — 

"  Do  tell  me  about  Rouen.  I  have  always  wanted  to 
go  there  so  much.  I  don't  know  why  I  never  accom- 
plished the  wish." 

Guy  is  on  the  verge  of  proposing  to  make  a  party  and 
go  there — of  offering  to  be  her  cicerone;  but  the  sudden 
thought  of  Dolores  stops  him.  He  scarcely  knows  why, 
but  he  feels  as  if  it  would  be  cruel  to  her  to  return  to 
Rouen  with  another  woman.  So  he  merely  tells  his  ques- 
tioner about  the  places  of  interest  to  be  seen,  dwelling 
particularly  on  the  curious  old  Eau  de  Robec. 

"Milly,"  interrupts  Mrs.  Vivian,  "we  promised  to  be 
at  Madame  Chiffon's  at  half-past  two." 

"So  we  did.  I  will  put  on  my  bonnet,"  Milly  says, 
rising.  "Shall  we  persuade  your  husband  and  Sir  Guy 
to  go  with  us,  and  give  us  the  benefit  of  their  taste?" 
with  a  saucy  look  at  Mr.  Vivian. 

"I'm  an  awfully  good  judge  of  bonnets,"  says  Guy, 
eagerly,  hoping  she  means  it  seriously. 


56  DOLORES. 

"Pshaw!"  cries  Charles  Vivian ;  "  come  with  me,  and 
I'll  show  you  something  worth  looking  at.  I'm  going 
over  the  Emperor's  stables." 

"Good-by,"  Milly  says,  smiling. 

Guy  feels  horribly  disappointed  that  she  has  not  given 
him  her  hand  at  parting ;  for  the  last  ten  minutes  he  has 
been  wondering  if  she  will.  Half  the  sunshine  seems  to 
have  fled  from  the  room  with  her.  She  has  not  been  gone 
five  seconds  when  he  wants  to  see  her  again. 

"Mrs.  Vivian,"  he  says,  eagerly,  as  he  is  left  alone 
with  her  for  a  few  moments,  "do  take  compassion  on  me. 
I  am  here  all  by  myself.  Won't  you  let  me  be  your  escort 
sometimes,  when  you  want  to  go  to  a  theatre,  or  any- 
where? I  know  Vivian  isn't  very  keen  about  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"Thanks, — yes;  I  shall  be  very  glad.  I  often  want 
some  one  to  take  care  of  me.  That  comes  of  being  an 
old  married  woman."  (With  a  sigh.)  "Mrs.  Scarlett  is 
a  charming  widow,  so  of  course  she  has  dozens  of  men  to 
look  after  her." 

This  speech  envelops  Guy  as  with  a  damp  blanket.  To 
be  Mrs.  Vivian's  escort  while  dozens  of  men,  curse  them  ! 
are  surrounding  this  woman  who  has  so  strangely  fascinated 
him! 

"I  shall  be  charmed!"  he  makes  answer,  a  little 
drearily.  "When  may  I  begin?" 

"To-night,  if  you  like,"  responds  Mrs.  Vivian,  giving 
him  her  hand  with  a  coquettish  smile.  Poor  little 
woman  !  she  is  pleased  at  the  thought  of  having  such 
a  stalwart,  good-looking  young  fellow  in  attendance 
upon  her. 

A  sunny  gleam  comes  across  her  of  the  old  times  when 
she  had  half  a  score  of  lovers  ready  to  her  hand.  What 
a  fearful  thing  it  is  for  a  woman  who  has  beauty,  and  no 


THE  LAW  OF  ATTRACTION.  57 

resources  within  herself,  to  pass  the  halcyon  days  of  la 
premiere  jeunesse  ! 

And  Guy  is  trying  to  smile,  and  wishing  frantically 
that  the  little  plump  jeweled  hand  in  his  were  the  lithe 
white  fingers  he  watched  across  the  lunch-table. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE  LAW  OF   ATTRACTION. 

I  DON'T  suppose  many  people  believe  in  love  at  first 
sight.  I  will  not  argue  that  it  is  either  possible  or  the 
reverse,  but  I  believe  that  some  persons  are  intensely  at- 
tracted to  others  from  the  first  moment  of  meeting, — 
long  to  look  into  their  eyes,  to  touch  their  hands,  to  be 
in  their  presence,  and  feel  the  strongest  reluctance  to  be 
parted  from  them.  I  do  not  say  this  is  love  at  first  sight, 
but  that  so  strong  an  attraction  is  generally  followed  by 
a  violent  passion  on  the  part  of  the  one  attracted.  One 
cannot  but  recognize  the  existence  of  sympathies  and 
antipathies,  though  few,  perhaps,  would  go  so  far  as  a 
friend  of  mine,  who  asserts  that  if  he  were  placed  blind- 
fold between  two  strangers  at  dinner,  he  should  imme- 
diately feel  which  was  the  more  sympathetic  to  him. 
Why  are  we  acted  upon  by  sympathies  and  antipathies  ? 
Who  can  account  for  them  ?  We  meet  a  person,  against 
whom  we  immediately  conceive  a  violent  antipathy ;  we 
become  silent,  and  oppressed  by  his  or  her  presence.  Is 
it  a  warning?  And  yet  the  chances  are  that  any  such 
person  will  never  be  thrown  into  antagonism  with  us,  will 
never  have  the  least  power  of  injuring  us.  And  then  again 
c* 


58  DOLORES. 

we  take  a  violent  fancy  to  some  one  who  turns  out  after 
all  a  very  poor  friend. 

"We  had  better  dine  together,"  says  Mrs.  Vivian, 
"  and  you  shall  go  to  the  theatre  with  us  afterwards.  'La 
Grande  Duchesse. ' ' ' 

"I  like  Schneider." 

"So  do  I." 

"Oh,  those  everlasting  last  words!"  growls  Charles 
Vivian  through  the  doorway.  "The  woman  (if  ever 
there  was  one)  who  could  let  a  man  go  when  he  had  said 
good -by  once,  deserves  to  be  crowned  with  rubies." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  must  go.     Good-by  again,  Guy." 

Guy  wishes  there  were  more  last  words,  and  that  they 
could  be  spun  out  until  Mrs.  Scarlett  re-appeared ;  but 
Mrs.  Vivian  hurries  away,  and  her  lord  says  impatiently, 
"  Come,  Guy,  get  your  hat  and  let's  be  off." 

So  they  jump  into  a  remise  and  are  driven  to  the 
stables,  where  they  criticise  and  admire,  and  for  the  time 
forget  everything  else.  The  most  love-sick  knight  gets 
half  an  hour  of  oblivion  in  a  stable  full  of  good  horses, — 
that  is  to  say,  if  he  be  an  Englishman,  and  fond  of  horses, 
— and  what  Englishman  is  not  ? 

Later,  Guy  meets  a  young  "blood"  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, the  Vicomte  de  Trois  Etoiles;  very  horsy,  and 
exaggeratedly  English  in  everything  but  his  boots  and 
accent.  He  is  driving  a  magnificent  blood  mare,  just 
come  over  from  England,  up  the  Champs  Elys6es,  in  a 
tilbury  by  Peters.  His  groom  is  the  neatest,  knowingest 
young  cockney  out, — his  coat  is  by  Poole,  and  his  brin- 
dled bouledogue  Billee  (the  most  ferocious  of  his  species) 
has  put  a  sum  I  should  be  afraid  to  mention  into  the 
pocket  of  Bill  George. 

The  Vicomte  insists  on  Guy  mounting  to  his  side,  and 
dismisses  the  groom ;  and  Guy,  fancying  the  mare  exceed- 


THE   LAW  OF  ATTRACTION. 


59 


ingly,  accedes,  and  regrets  it  bitterly  the  moment  after, 
— for  he  is  a  good  whip  himself,  and  a  genuine  lover  of 
horses.  The  mare  has  magnificent  action,  but  that  is  not 
enough  for  her  master, — he  must  rattle  her  up  to  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe  at  break-neck  speed  ;  and  every  moment  he 
gives  a  little  flick  of  the  whip,  making  her  break  her  trot, 
and  get  so  irritable  that  she  is  covered  with  foam  and 
sweat,  while  every  vein  stands  out  of  her  satin  skin.  If  I 
had  my  own  way  I  would  make  it  the  test  of  good  coach- 
manship to  drive  without  a  whip  at  all, —  bien  entendu 
that  you  are  sitting  behind  a  good  animal. 

Guy  was  frantic,  but  he  was  doomed  now  to  sit  and 
curse  inwardly  for  at  least  sixty  minutes,  and  something 
else  he  saw  in  the  Bois  did  not  tend  to  sweeten  his 
temper.  When  they  had  made  the  tour  du  lac  and  were 
returning,  a  barouche  passed  them.  Mrs.  Vivian  smiled, 
and  waved  two  fingers  at  Guy. 

Mrs.  Scarlett  did  not  even  see  him, —  she  was  looking 
at  and  listening  to  a  man  who  sat  opposite  and  was  dis- 
coursing to  her  with  the  greatest  animation.  Guy  was 
conscious  of  a  wish  that  he  had  not  come  to  Paris  at  all. 
For  the  first  time  since  he  turned  from  the  jeweler's  win- 
dow he  thought  of  Dolores  and  her  wistful  innocent  eyes. 
It  was  much  better  for  a  man's  happiness  to  love  some 
little  rustic  maiden  who  never  saw  but  him,  than  a  fash- 
ionable woman  who  lived  upon  the  breath  of  flattery.  Of 
course  this  was  only  an  abstract  idea, — he  hardly  knew 
himself  that  he  was  illustrating  it  by  Dolores  and  Mrs. 
Scarlett. 

Guy  is  doomed  to  vexation.  He  has  arranged  to  join 
the  Vivians  in  their  rooms,  and  go  with  them  to  the  Caf6 
Anglais,  to  dine  before  the  theatre. 

As  he  enters,  Mrs.  Scarlett  is  standing  by  the  window 
with  a  good-looking  young  fellow,  who  is  in  the  act  of 


60  DOLORES. 

buttoning  her  glove.  He  does  not  desist  upon  the  entrance 
of  a  third  person,  nor  does  Milly  draw  away  her  hand, — 
as  indeed  why  should  she  ?  Guy  feels  unaccountably  irri- 
tated. Either  this  cursed  young  puppy,  as  he  mentally 
designates  him,  is  immensely  awkward,  or  he  has  the 
most  confounded  assurance,  for  he  takes  about  five  minutes 
to  accomplish  his  task,  though  the  glove  is  not  in  the 
least  tight. 

"  Thanks  very  much,"  says  Milly,  smiling  sweetly ;  and 
then  turning  to  Guy, — 

" I  hate  an  unbuttoned  glove.     Don't  you?"  she  asks. 

"  I  don't  know.  No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  don't  much 
mind,"  Guy  answers,  not  in  the  least  considering  the 
question,  but  jealous  of  the  service  rendered. 

He  is  fast  developing  a  hitherto  unknown  trait  in  his 
character ;  it  is  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  has  ever  been 
jealous ;  indeed,  he  is  not  in  the  least  aware  that  what  he 
feels  at  this  moment  is  a  barb  of  the  green-eyed  monster. 
This  is  a  self-sufficient,  impudent  young  puppy,  he  thinks, 
and  he  would  rather  like  to  kick  him. 

"Awful  bore,  an  unbuttoned  glove  !"  says  our  young 
plunger.  "  I  say,  Milly,  I  know  I  could  button  the  first 
button  of  that  other  one,  if  you'll  only  let  me  try  once 
more." 

Mrs.  Scarlett  gives  her  hand,  and  Guy  feels  so  annoyed 
that  he  is  obliged  to  look  another  way  until  the  operation 
is  finished.  Enter  Charles  Vivian  hurriedly. 

"  I  say,  we  shall  be  confoundedly  late.  How  are  you, 
Thornton  ?  Gertrude  not  here !  As  usual,  of  course. 
Couldn't  be  punctual  for  anything,  I  suppose,  except  my 
funeral.  I  daresay  she'd  manage  that." 

"Oh,  yes,  dear,"  echoes  a  laughing  voice  behind, 
"I'll  take  care  to  be  in  time  for  that.  How  are  we  to 
go — now,  I  mean,  not  to  your  funeral?" 


THE   LAW  OF  ATTRACTION.  6l 

"Oh,  Thornton  shall  take  you  two  in  the  carriage, 
and  Guy  and  I  will  follow  in  a  cab, — eh,  Guy?" 

Perhaps  it  would  not  be  altogether  correct  to  say  that 
Guy  assents  cheerfully,  but  he  assents,  and  that  is  all 
which  is  required  of  him. 

"Nice  young  fellow,  Thornton!"  says  Mr.  Vivian. 

"Ah!"  responds  Guy,  dubiously. 

"  Another  victim  of  Milly  Scarlett's.  By  Jove!  I  never 
saw  anything  like  that  woman;  there  seems  to  be  some 
sorcery  about  her.  This  lad  is  only  twenty  now,  and  'pon 
my  soul  I  believe  he  thinks  she's  going  to  marry  him." 

"I  suppose  he  has  known  her  a  long  time,"  says  Guy, 
a  little  stiffly,  thinking  how  he  heard  him  call  her  by  her 
name. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  yes !  she  used  to  pet  him  when  he  was  a 
boy  at  Eton,  and  she  just  married." 

" How  long  has  her  husband  been  dead?" 

" Four  years;  it  was  a  rum  match"  (reflectively). 

"Ah?"  says  Guy,  interrogatively. 

"  Biggest  fool  you  ever  saw,  and  she's  such  a  clever  one ! 
The  most  curious  part  of  it  is,  she  was  tremendously  fond 
of  him,  and  nearly  went  off  her  head  when  he  broke  his 
neck  out  hunting." 

"Money,  I  suppose?"  (tersely). 

"  Yes,  by  Jove  !  her  jointure  was  three  thousand  a  year, 
and  she  doesn't  lose  it  if  she  marries  again." 

This  news  does  not  please  Guy.  No  woman  ought  to 
have  money,  he  thinks  to  himself, — no  nice  woman,  at 
least. 

"  Of  course  that  gives  a  handle  to  spiteful  people  to 
say  men  run  after  her  for  her  money,"  pursues  Charles 
Vivian  ;  "  but  I  don't  believe  it  makes  an  atom  of  differ- 
ence in  her  case." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  responds  Guy,  with  an  emphasis 
6 


62  DOLORES. 

that  his  friend  would  certainly  have  remarked,  had  they 
not  at  this  moment  drawn  up  at  the  door  of  their  cafe. 

Guy  has  not  the  felicity  of  sitting  next  to  Mrs.  Scarlett 
at  dinner;  Mrs.  Vivian  is  placed  between  her  and  her 
young  adorer.  A  disinterested  observer  might  be  amused 
to  watch  the  unmistakable  devotion  of  the  lad.  Guy  is 
not  at  all  amused,  he  can  only  feel  lost  in  astonishment 
how  a  woman  like  Milly  can  tolerate  such  a  forward  young 
fool. 

Mrs.  Vivian,  who  all  the  afternoon  has  been  flattering 
herself  that  she  will  make  Guy  the  captive  of  her  bow  and 
spear,  feels  somewhat  chagrined  at  finding  how  absent  his 
replies  are,  and  how  little  effect  the  charming  toilette  she 
has  donned  for  his  special  benefit  seems  to  have  upon  him. 
She  really  looks  young  and  pretty  to-night,  and  she  knows 
it.  But  she  cannot  help  being  aware  that  Guy's  whole 
thoughts  and  attention  are  riveted  on  Milly,  and  though 
they  are  really  the  greatest  friends,  no  woman  can  feel  that 
her  charms  are  placed  in  the  shade  by  those  of  another 
woman  without  a  slight  temporary  diminution  in  her 
friendship. 

Whatever  the  other  three  may  do,  it  is  quite  certain 
that  Guy  and  Mrs.  Vivian  do  not  find  the  dinner  a  very 
sociable  or  pleasant  one ;  however,  there  is  compensation 
in  store  for  both  of  them,  as  there  very  often  is  when 
things  seem  to  be  going  utterly  wrong.  Mr.  Thornton, 
to  his  infinite  regret,  has  to  take  his  mother  and  sister  to 
the  opera  (a  very  pleasant  companion,  I  dare  say,  they  will 
find  him)  ;  and  at  the  door  of  the  theatre  Mrs.  Vivian 
meets  a  young  Frenchman  who  was  immensely  attentive 
to  her  at  a  ball  some  few  nights  previous,  and  who  is  only 
too  charmed  to  accept  a  seat  in  her  box,  and  devote  him- 
self entirely  to  her  during  the  evening. 

Guy  sits  at  the  back  of  the  box.     He  can  see  the  stage, 


THE   LAW  OF  ATTRACTION.  63 

but  the  turn  of  a  well-shaped  head  seems  to  interest  him 
infinitely  more  than  the  sprightly  performance  Hither- 
to, he  has  been  wont  to  be  vastly  pleased  with  the  chic 
impersonator  of  "La  Grande  Duchesse;"  but  somehow 
it  jars  upon  him  a  little  to-night, — he  feels  the  uneasy 
sensation  at  his  chest  that  corresponds  to  a  woman's 
blush.  While  the  scene  between  Fritz  and  his  enamored 
mistress  is  going  forward,  he  half  expects  the  ladies  to 
rise  in  a  paroxysm  of  outraged  virtue  and  leave  the 
theatre.  Guy  is  quite  a  man  of  the  world,  but  he  has  a 
trick,  as  many  of  the  best  of  his  sex  have,  of  making  too 
wide  a  gulf  in  his  mind  between  virtuous  women  and  fast 
women,  and  setting  those  he  cares  for  on  a  pedestal  un- 
comfortably out  of  reach  of  the  exigencies  of  every-day 
life.  Few  women  appreciate  such  veneration,  it  genes 
them  to  act  up  to  so  high  a  standard ;  but  fortunately, 
as  long  as  a  man  is  really  in  love,  a  woman,  do  what  she 
may,  can  hardly  lessen  his  belief  in  her. 

Milly's  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  stage, — she  neither  speaks, 
nor  turns,  nor  smiles ;  perhaps  her  eyes  flash  a  little,  but 
Guy  cannot  see  that, — he  chooses  to  think  she  is  dis- 
gusted. Mrs.  Vivian  evidently  enjoys  the  performance 
immensely;  her  companion  is  lost  in  rapture.  At  the 
end  of  the  scene  Charles  Vivian  rises  in  his  usual  abrupt 
manner. 

"Such  a  thing  wouldn't  be  tolerated  in  London,"  he 
says  indignantly  (it  was  before  the  Offenbachian  element 
had  been  introduced  with  so  much  success  in  England). 
"  I  wonder  modest  women  can  sit  and  look  on.  I'm 
going;  you'll  see  them  home,  Guy?"  and  he  vanished 
impetuously. 

"Where  is  Charlie  gone?"  inquires  his  wife,  sweetly. 

"He's  gone  to  smoke  a  cigar,"  Guy  makes  answer, 
taking  the  chair  next  to  Mrs.  Scarlett.  She  turns  and 


64  DOLORES. 

smiles  at  him;  her  eyes  meet  his,  and  send  a  thrill  of 
pleasure  to  his  heart. 

"  Charming  music,  is  it  not?"  she  whispers. 

"Awfully  jolly!"  And  he  forgets  his  outraged  pro- 
priety, and  thinks  of  nothing  but  the  intense  and  new 
sensation  of  pleasure  it  gives  him  to  sit  next  this  woman, 
who  is  not  beautiful,  not  moulded  like  a  Diana  or  a  Venus, 
or  any  other  mythological  personage. 

She  turns  to  him  now  and  then.  I  suppose  there  is 
something  of  the  coquette  in  her  nature ;  she  must  know 
quite  well  the  effect  she  is  producing  upon  him ;  there  is 
no  mistaking  the  expression  of  his  eyes.  But  she  looks 
round  more  often ;  she  lets  her  eyes  linger  for  more  than 
a  moment  on  his  face ;  her  voice  falls  into  a  lower,  more 
caressing  cadence.  I  wonder  if  the  woman  breathes  who 
can  see  a  man  falling  head  over  ears  in  love  with  her, 
and  honestly  try  to  prevent  it  ?  (It  will  be  clearly  under- 
stood, of  course,  that  I  mean  a  man  whose  admiration  is 
a  credit  to  her.)  I  know  Milly  could  not ;  she  was  as 
insatiable  of  homage  as  an  Eastern  queen. 

Looking  back  to  it,  Guy  thinks  this  the  happiest  hour 
of  his  whole  life ;  an  entire  sense  of  bien-etre  pervades 
him,  his  whole  frame  seems  possessed  of  a  happy  vitality, 
— of  a  keen  capacity  for  love  and  enjoyment.  The  curtain 
falls  on  the  second  act.  Mrs.  Vivian  complains  of  the 
heat,  and  her  companion  suggests  that  she  shall  walk  as 
far  as  the  foyer.  Mrs.  Vivian  accedes;  will  Milly  go  too? 
No ;  Milly  is  very  well  where  she  is.  If  Guy  could  be 
happier  than  he  already  is,  it  is  when  the  box  door  closes 
and  leaves  him  alone  with  Mrs.  Scarlett.  Who  does  not 
know  the  thrill  of  delight  with  which  one  sees  one's  best 
friend  depart,  if  one  is  left  alone  with  the  dear  one  ?  Not 
a  word  may  be  said,  not  even  a  look  exchanged,  but  a 
third  person  might  welcomely  see  and  hear ;  but  there  is 


THE  LAW  OF  ATTRACTION.  65 

a  wonderful  pleasure   in   the  bare  fact  of  being  alone 
together. 

Milly  is  vaguely  conscious  that  what  this  man  feels  for 
her  is  not  a  transient  passion  or  admiration  (this  is  not 
the  first  time  her  magnetic  power  has  exercised  itself), 
and  she  can  foresee  the  end.  She  wonders  at  it  herself. 
She  has  met  many  men  who  have  admired,  liked,  loved 
her,  but  only  once  before  a  man  who  has  been  drawn  to 
her  at  once,  like  a  needle  to  the  magnet,  with  this  strange 
power.  It  is  strange,  since  it  is  not  a  power  that  she  can 
either  compel  or  constrain.  Nay,  it  is  quite  possible  that, 
when  she  would  give  the  world  to  have  it  at  her  command, 
it  would  fail  her.  She  likes  Guy ;  he  is  pleasing  to  her. 
Looks,  birth,  everything,  are  in  his  favor,  and  she  loves 
to  be  adored.  Milly  can  no  more  forego  the  pleasure  of 
being  loved  than  the  flame  can  extinguish  itself  to  keep 
the  moth  from  self-immolation.  After  all,  I  don't  sup- 
pose it  would  be  of  the  slightest  use  for  a  woman  to  try 
to  make  herself  displeasing  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  is 
in  love  with  her;  indeed,  it  is  the  common  lot  of  poor 
humanity  to  love  best  what  treats  it  the  worst. 

Guy  is  immensely  happy  sitting  looking  into  his  com- 
panion's face,  and  listening  to  her  bright  charming  voice. 
Their  conversation  is  not  particularly  brilliant ;  they  do 
not  "talk  fireworks,"  as  a  newspaper  critic  writes;  but  it 
is  very  pleasant,  and  there  is  now  and  then  a  pause,  al- 
most pleasanter  still.  Guy's  attention,  as  he  leans  towards 
his  companion,  is  divided  between  the  slender  white 
hands,  sparkling  with  diamonds,  and  two  brighter  jewels 
that  shine  and  kindle  under  the  low  arched  brows.  An 
irresistible  impulse  seizes  him  ;  as  he  conceives  the  thought 
his  heart  throbs.  What  a  terrible  awe  a  brave  man  has 
of  a  pure  woman ! — for  all  brave,  honest  men  believe  in 
women. 

K  6* 


66  DOLORES. 

His  strong  young  voice  trembles  as  he  leans  nearer 
towards  her,  and  says,  with  an  earnestness  which  could 
not  be  greater  if  he  were  entreating  for  the  most  mighty 
boon, — 

"  May  I  ask  you  a  very  great  favor?" 

Milly  is  the  least  bit  embarrassed,  but  she  answer* 
archly, — 

"You  may  certainly  ask." 

"Might  I"  (very  humbly,  in  an  abashed  whisper) — 
"might  I  kiss  your  hand?" 

Milly  feels  considerably  relieved.  This  tremendous 
favor,  the  bare  asking  of  which  makes  him  tremble,  is 
only  permission  to  perform  an  act  of  homage  such  as  the 
mightiest  sovereigns  are  in  the  habit  of  receiving. 

"Certainly  you  may,"  she  makes  answer  with  a  gay 
little  laugh ;  and  he  takes  it  with  unutterable  reverence, 
as  if  it  were  some  dainty  bit  of  china,  that  might  slip 
from  his  hand  and  shiver  into  a  thousand  pieces. 

And  what  a  hand  it  is ! — how  fragile,  and  yet  what  a 
marvelous  magnetic  power  it  has !  He  feels  the  touch  of 
it  in  every  fibre  as  it  lies  for  a  moment  in  his  ;  then  he 
stoops  his  lips  reverently  to  it. 

Milly  thinks  things  are  getting  too  serious.  She  is  glad 
when  at  this  moment  the  orchestra  strikes  up — glad  that 
Mrs.  Vivian  and  her  escort  are  in  the  act  of  returning  to 
their  places.  Guy  is  not  at  all  glad.  The  curtain  draws 
up,  but  he  sees  nothing — hears  nothing  of  the  opera ;  his 
eyes  are  devouring  the  little  hand,  whose  marvelous  touch 
he  still  feels ;  he  is  thinking  that  it  will  lie  on  his  arm  for 
a  few  moments  as  he  takes  her  to  the  carriage. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  says,  starting  as  he  suddenly 
perceives  Mrs.  Vivian  trying  to  attract  his  attention.  It 
is  only  to  draw  his  attention  to  the  fact  that  Schneider 
has  an  entirely  different  set  of  diamonds  from  those  she 


THE  LAW  OF  ATTRACTION.  67 

wore  in  the  last  act.  He  feels  impatient,  everything  seems 
coarse  and  gross  to  him  but  the  woman  who  has  infatuated 
him. 

The  piece  is  drawing  to  a  close.  Guy  betakes  himself 
to  look  for  Mrs.  Vivian's  servant.  When  he  returns,  the 
ladies  are  cloaked  and  shawled. 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  warm  enough?"  he  asks  solicit- 
ously of  Milly.  He  is  not  aware  himself  how  tender  is  the 
inflexion  of  his  voice,  but  Mrs.  Vivian  notes  it,  and  smiles 
to  herself.  She  is  not  jealous  now.  Guy  feels  the  longed- 
for  hand  on  his  arm ;  he  would  like  to  linger  for  half  an 
hour  in  the  draughty  passage,  but  he  thinks  of  her,  and 
hurries  to  the  carriage.  It  has  been  raining ;  the  pavement 
is  quite  wet.  Milly  lifts  her  dress  and  discloses  a  dainty 
little  foot,  shod  as  pretty  feet  should  be, — the  illusion  is 
complete.  If  Guy  has  one  weakness  greater  than  another, 
it  is  for  a  pretty  foot. 

They  find  Mr.  Vivian  smoking  by  a  wood  fire  on  their 
return ;  he  is  not  in  a  particularly  amiable  frame  of 
mind. 

"  Good-night,  dear,"  says  his  wife  sweetly ;  "  we've  had 
a  charming  evening,  and  won't  stop  for  you  to  spoil  it. 
Good-night,  Guy.  Come,  Milly,"  and  exeunt. 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that !"  says  her  lord,  graciously, 
as  the  door  closes  upon  the  two  ladies,  and  Guy's  reluctant 
eyes  return  from  following  them.  "  Come  and  have  a 
weed."  For  a  wonder,  Guy  would  have  preferred  his  own 
society;  his  brain  is  in  a  state  of  pleasant  confusion,  and 
he  wants  to  think,  but  he  is  thoroughly  good-natured,  and 
obeys  the  peremptory  summons  cheerfully. 

Charles  Vivian  is  in  a  very  abusive  mood.  Everything 
comes  under  his  sovereign  displeasure, — his  chair,  the  fire, 
the  hotel,  Paris,  France,  the  French, — and  he  gradually 
comes  round  to  the  real  cause  of  his  ire,  namely,  the 


68  DOLORES. 

morality  or  immorality  of  Offenbach's  most  popular  opeia, 
— which  is  again  lost  in  an  exposition  of  the  demerits  of 
the  sex,  called  by  courtesy  le  beau. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CHARLES  VIVIAN   ON    "THE   FAIR  SEX." 

GUY  never  likes  to  hear  women  abused,  but  he  objects 
particularly  to  it  in  his  present  mood. 

"I  say,  old  fellow,"  he  remarks  with  some  warmth, 
"it's  quite  fair  for  every  one  to  have  his  own  opinion, 
but  I  don't  see  why,  if  you  don't  care  for  a  thing  your- 
self, you  should  try  to  depreciate  it  to  those  who  do.  It's 
all  very  well  to  abuse  women,  but  how  the  deuce  should 
we  get  on  without  them?" 

"  Well,  from  a  physiological  point  of  view,  not  at  all ; 
but  if  they  hadn't  entered  into  the  plan  of  creation,  I  am 
not  sure  that  we  shouldn't  have  got  on  a  great  deal  better. 
But,  my  good  fellow,  I  don't  set  up  for  a  woman-hater. 
No  one  enjoys  the  society  of  a  clever,  agreeable  woman 
more  than  I  do ;  what  I  complain  of  is  being  tied  to  a 
particular  one  for  the  whole  of  your  natural  life,  suitable 
or  unsuitable.  The  nicest  woman  in  the  world  must 
become  odious  when  you  feel  you  carft  get  away  from 
her." 

"Then  with  such  views,"  remarks  Sir  Guy  somewhat 
sententiously,  "you  had  no  business  to  marry." 

"Of  course  not,  only  unfortunately,  you  see,  I  did 
not  get  those  views  until  too  late.  When  I  fell  in 
love,  I  thought  what  a  heavenly  thing  it  would  be  to  be 


CHARLES    VIVIAN  ON  "  THE  FAIR   SEX."        69 

always  in  the  society  of  my  idol !  Lord  !  what  blind  fools 
men  are  !  My  dear  boy,  when  you  are  in  love  you  will 
be  ready  to  break  any  one's  head  who  dares  to  think  that 
you  could  have  too  much  of  your  innamorafa." 

"Very  likely,"  says  Guy  absently,  looking  into  the 
fire,  and  thinking  what  utter  happiness  it  would  be  to  go 
through  life  with  Milly  Scarlett. 

"I  think  the  best  thing,"  proceeds  Charles  Vivian  re- 
flectively, "  since  landed  property  and  the  laws  of  society 
compel  the  sacrifice,  is  to  marry  some  very  simple  little 
country  girl,  and  mould  her  oneself.  It  wouldn't  be  very 
exciting  perhaps,  but  at  all  events  she  wouldn't  be  always 
kicking  over  the  traces,  and  asserting  her  will  against 
yours." 

"Pshaw!"  is  the  impatient  answer.  "What  pleasure 
on  earth  can  a  man  have  in  a  little  bread-and-butter 
school-girl?  Give  me  a  woman  of  the  world,  brilliant, 
fascinating,  charming, — a  woman  whose  love  would  raise 
you  to  Heaven,  or  sink  you  into  the  lowest  depths  of 
despair." 

His  voice  kindles,  his  eyes  flash,  the  hand  that  holds 
his  forgotten  cigar  trembles  visibly. 

"Guy,"  asks  his  friend  quietly,  "are  you  thinking  of 
Milly  Scarlett?" 

"If  I  am?"  he  inquires  stiffly,  reddening  a  little. 

"I  should  be  rather  sorry,  that's  all.  Don't  misunder- 
stand me.  I  am  not  going  to  say  a  word  against  her.  I 
dare  say  she'd  make  a  very  good  wife  to  a  man  who  wasn't 
jealous.  She  was  an  excellent  wife  to  Scarlett,  I  believe, 
but  since  that  time  she  has  been  thoroughly  spoilt,  and  I 
don't  believe  she  could  exist  without  admiration." 

"  I  don't  suppose  any  sensible  man  would  object  to  his 
wife  being  admired,"  Guy  remarks  with  some  coldness. 

'•'No,  not  to  a  certain  extent,  I  dare  say.     But  the 


•jo  DOLORES. 

present  state  of  society  is  rather  a  curious  one.  Married 
women  nowadays  expect  (and  not  in  vain)  as  much  atten- 
tion and  admiration  as  a  young  debutante  did  formerly. 
I  don't  think  it's  at  all  a  satisfactory  state  either  for  them 
or  the  men  they  marry,  their  children,  household,  or  any- 
thing else.  These  cursed  French  manners  don't  suit  us  a 
bit." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  says  Guy,  indignantly, 
"  that  there  are  not  women  whom  no  example  or  customs 
in  the  world  could  contaminate  ?' ' 

"I  don't  believe  in  any  woman  breathing,"  answers 
Mr.  Vivian,  slowly.  "  I  like  women,  I  admire  them,  I  take 
pleasure  in  their  society,  but  I  have  no  faith  in  them." 

Guy  preserves  a  disgusted  silence,  and  Charles  Vivian, 
settling  himself  down  in  his  chair,  proceeds  uninterrupted 
with  his  oration.  He  is  a  good  talker,  and  a  shrewd  ob- 
server ;  he  loves  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  and  he  loves 
to  revenge  the  sufferings  of  his  married  life  by  opening 
the  eyes  (as  he  thinks)  of  his  fellow-men.  But  he  prides 
himself  on  being  strictly  just — he  always  makes  allowances 
for  every  woman  but  one.  Thus  he  delivers  himself: 

"  I  say  that  women  are  false  by  nature,  by  constitution, 
by  education,  and,  generally  speaking,  by  inclination.  I 
don't  agree  with  the  fools  who  think  it  fine  to  say  they 
are  only  fit  to  be  the  slaves  or  playthings  of  men.  On 
the  contrary,  I  think  them,  sometimes,  if  not  our  supe- 
riors, at  all  events  our  equals.  We,  for  the  most  part, 
are  infernally  selfish.  Our  one  great  concern  in  life — of 
course  I  am  speaking  of  idle  fellows  like  you  and  me — is 
to  be  as  much  amused  and  as  little  bored  as  possible.  We 
have  a  perpetual  craving  after  excitement,  and  nineteen- 
twentieths  of  us  don't  care  a  straw  at  what  expense  to 
others,  and  often  to  ourselves,  we  gratify  it." 

"  Confound  it  all !"  breaks  in  Guy.     "  I " 


CHARLES    VIVIAN  ON  "  THE  FAIR  SEX."        71 

"  My  dear  fellow,  please  to  understand  that  my  re- 
marks are  not  personal.  It  isn't  a  question  of  you  or 
me." 

"Oh,  all  right,  I  thought  it  was.  Pray  proceed," 
laughs  Guy,  good-humoredly,  puffing  away  at  his  cigar, 
and  entirely  fortified  by  the  dear  image  in  his  mind 
against  any  of  the  vituperations  he  knows  to  be  coming. 
When  Charles  Vivian  means  to  be  down  upon  women,  he 
always  commences  with  a  mild  depreciation  of  his  own 
sex. 

"Women  love  admiration,  and  that  is  the  first  step  to- 
wards making  them  false.  They  like  it  to  be  known  that 
they  are  admired,  therefore  they  must  have  a  little  court 
about  them ;  therefore  they  must  always  appear  in  public 
with  one  or  more  devoted  slaves.  Now,  you  know,  to 
get  and  keep  these  slaves,  unless  a  woman  is  exceptionally 
beautiful,  she  must  employ  a  certain  amount  of  pains,  and 
a  good  deal  more  dissimulation.  She  must  first  attract, 
then  keep  them  amused,  and  allow  them  to  believe  that 
she  reciprocates  their  regard,  in  a  measure,  at  all  events, 
for,  as  you  and  I  know,  Guy,  there  are  precious  few  men 
who  are  inclined  to  waste  their  time  on  a  woman  they 
know  to  be  utterly  indifferent  to  them,  and  from  whom 
nothing  is  to  be  hoped." 

"I  don't  know,"  interposes  the  other.  "Some  fel- 
lows are  so  confoundedly  vain,  they  think  if  a  woman 
looks  at  them  she's  dying  for  them." 

"  Yes,  some  do,  and  a  clever  woman  has  a  very  easy  task 
with  them ;  the  least  pressure  of  the  hand,  one  or  two  be- 
wildering glances,  and  a  woman  ought  always  to  be  able 
to  say  with  her  eyes  twenty  times  more  than  she  means. 
I've  spent  a  certain  number  of  years  of  my  life  in  trying 
to  be  up  to  their  machinations,  and  I've  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  most  fascinating  woman  in  the  world,  the 


7  a  DOLORES. 

one  a  man  could  swear  was  the  most  impassioned,  is  tha 
one  who  feels  absolutely  nothing." 

"Pshaw!"  cries  Guy,  impatiently  flinging  away  the 
end  of  his  cigar,  and  lighting  another.  "  My  dear  old 
boy,  you're  too  clever  by  half.  You're  like  Paul,  to 
whom  What's-his-name  said,  '  Much  learning  hath  rr.ade 
thee  mad!'  " 

"I'm  right  this  time,  and  I'll  explain  how  it  is. 
Women  who  feel  very  much " 

"  Oh,  you  admit  that  some  of  them  do?" 

"  Hang  it !  don't  interrupt  so." 

"All  right,— go  on." 

"  Women  who  feel  very  much  are  sure  to  be  either  too 
contained  or  too  demonstrative.  The  one  who  feels 
nothing  knows  exactly  what  will  make  her  most  fasci- 
nating in  the  glamoured  eyes  of  her  lover,  and  in  conse- 
quence succeeds  to  perfection.  If  a  man  could  sometimes 
see  the  lady-love  he  has  just  left,  vith  a  reeling  intoxi- 
cated brain,  and  the  profound  conviction  that  she  is  the 
most  heavenly  being  on  earth,  awfully,  devotedly  fond 
of  him,  of  course, — if  he  could  hear  the  sigh  of  relief 
when  the  door  closes  upon  him,  and  see  the  triumphant 
flash  of  her  eyes  at  the  memory  of  how  she  has  befooled 
him,  it  might  make  him  feel  rather  small,  but  it  would  be 
a  rattling  good  thing  for  him,  all  the  same.  In  society 
you  see  a  dozen  fellows  round  the  object  of  your  affec- 
tions, and  perhaps  you  are  ass  enough  to  believe  yourself 
the  only  favored  one.  What  do  you  suppose  is  her  at- 
traction for  them  ? — has  she  never  given  encouragement 
to  any  one  but  you?" 

"Well,  old  boy,"  says  Guy,  rising  to  his  feet,  "they 
seem  to  have  taken  you  into  their  confidence,  and  exposed 
their  hands  pretty  freely;  but  as  they  haven't  done  me 
the  same  favor,  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  continuing  to 


CHARLES    VIVIAN  ON  "  THE  FAIR  SEX." 


73 


believe  that  there  are  heaps  of  good,  virtuous,  pure 
women  going  about  the  world.  Of  course  there  are 
plenty  of  all  sorts ;  but,  considering  the  sort  of  life  we 
lead,  hang  me  if  I  know  how  we're  considered  worthy 
to  have  a  good  woman's  happiness  intrusted  to  us  1" 

"Your  sentiments  do  you  credit,"  retorts  the  other, 
with  sarcasm.  "  You  must  get  up  a  lecture  on  the  subject 
for  afternoon  teas  this  season." 

"All  right,"  says  Guy,  good-humoredly.  "Now  I'm 
off.  What  are  you  going  to  do  to-morrow  ?" 

"I  have  promised  to  drive  Mrs.  Scarlett  a  few  miles 
out  of  Paris,  to  see  some  old  friends.  But  dine  with  us, 
if  you  can,  at  the  Maison  Dor£e  to-morrow,  and  we  will 
go  somewhere  afterwards." 

So  they  part.  Guy  is  not  the  least  inclined  to  sleep, 
so  he  lights  another  cigar  and  goes  out  into  the  street. 
The  rain  has  ceased,  it  is  a  bright  night,  and  he  strolls 
about  lost  in  thought, —  one  thought,  one  idea, —  the 
perfections  of  his  ladye-love.  He  still  sees  her,  hears 
her  voice,  feels  her  hand  in  his,  and  he  wonders  in  his 
heart  if  such  enormous  happiness  is  ever  given  to  a  man 
as  to  possess  a  woman  for  whom  he  feels  what  he  does 
for  Milly  Scarlett.  Such  a  woman  false !  tire  of  such 
a  woman  !  Pshaw  !  Old  Vivian  must  be  beginning  to 
dote.  Oh  !  the  unutterable  happiness  of  feeling  you  are 
tied,  chained,  bound  to  a  creature  like  that !  His  mind 
painted  Milly  in  a  thousand  ways ;  at  the  head  of  his 
table,  seated  beside  him  on  his  four-in-hand,  riding  to  the 
Meet  on  the  best  horse  in  the  three  kingdoms,  lying  on 
the  deck  of  his  yacht,  making  bright  the  old  house  at 
Wentworth  with  her  sweet  presence.  Then  came  a  revul- 
sion of  feeling  absolutely  painful.  How  dare  he  think  of 
winning  her  ?  What  was  there  in  him  to  make  such  a 
woman  care  for  him  ? 

D  7 


74  DOLORES. 

He  went  to  his  room,  and  tried  to  sleep.  His  thoughts 
maddened  him.  He  rose  and  paced  to  and  fro,  and 
longed  frantically  for  the  morning.  It  might  be  odd, 
strange,  mad  almost,  but  he  would  see  Mrs.  Scarlett  the 
next  morning,  and  tell  her  just  what  he  felt  for  her. 

When  the  broad  daylight  came  in,  he  fell  into  a 
feverish  sleep,  and  slept  late  into  the  morning.  When 
he  awoke  and  had  breakfasted,  his  ideas  underwent  a 
considerable  change  as  to  the  propriety  of  declaring  his 
passion  to  Mrs.  Scarlett.  Oh,  how  grievously  long  that 
day  seemed  !  how  utterly  consumed  he  was  by  ennui! 
what  countless  cigars  he  smoked  !  In  the  afternoon  he 
got  a  message  to  say  the  ladies  were  tired,  so  they  would 
dine  in  their  rooms,  and  the  dinner  at  the  Maison  Dorde 
must  stand  over  until  the  next  evening.  Since  he  was 
a  schoolboy,  deprived  of  a  holiday,  Guy  had  never  felt 
a  disappointment  so  bitterly.  He  and  Charles  Vivian 
dined  tete-d-tcte  in  the  Palais  Royal ;  they  were  both 
out  of  sorts, —  the  latter  had  quarreled  with  his  wife  for 
spending  too  much  money.  She  had  sulked  and  refused 
to  join  the  proposed  dinner-party,  and  Guy,  of  course, 
was  dreadfully  put  out  at  the  absence  of  the  woman  he 
was  so  eager  to  see.  The  dinner  was  excellent,  but  they 
both  abused  it,  and  sent  away  half  the  dishes  untasted. 

"After  all,"  said  Guy,  "a  dinner  without  ladies  is  very 
slow  work.  You  must  admit  that,  Vivian." 

"  Hang  the  women  !  You  and  I  have  had  plenty  of 
jolly  dinners  together  without  them,  and  should  have  had 
to-night  but  for  their  fault." 

"You  can't  blame  them  for  being  tired,"  remarks  Guy. 

"  Tired !  pshaw !  they  haven't  walked  five  hundred 
yards  to-day.  My  wife's  in  a  temper,  and  wouldn't  come 
to  spite  me,  and  of  course  Mrs.  Scarlett  was  obliged  to 
stay  at  home  with  her.  Ah,  my  boy,  you'll  know  all 


CHARLES    VIVIAN  ON  "  THE  FAIR   SEX."        75 

these  little  delights  for  yourself  one  day.  Your  wife,  like 
mine,  perhaps,  will  have  the  most  extravagant  tastes,  and 
spend  a  small  fortune  on  her  infernal  bonnets  and  capes, 
— you'll  remonstrate, — she  will  fly  into  a  passion  and  call 
you  mean,  and  cowardly,  and  ungentlemanlike, — you  will 
retort, — she  will  have  hysterics,  and  for  the  next  twenty- 
four  hours  will  be  exercising  her  ingenious  mind  on  the 
problem  of  how  she  can  most  vex  and  thwart  you." 

Guy  is  silent ;  he  is  wishing  passionately  that  he  could 
spend  every  farthing  he  has  on  the  woman  he  loves. 

A  man's  mind  is  apt  to  look  at  these  things  in  a  differ- 
ent light  when  he  is  doubtful  about  possessing  his  treasure, 
and  when  it  is  unmistakably,  positively,  unchangeably  his 
own. 

"  I  hope  Mrs.  Vivian  will  be  all  right  to-morrow,"  Guy 
says,  after  the  silence  has  remained  unbroken  for  some 
little  time. 

"  Of  course  she  will.  She  won't  stop  at  home  when 
she  knows  it  doesn't  annoy  me,  and,  thank  Heaven  !  she 
can't  know  how  angry  I  am,  and  what  a  stupid  dinner 
we've  had.  How  she  would  glory  in  it !" 

"  It  isn't  very  lively  here.     Let's  go  into  the  theatre." 

They  do  so,  and  Guy  is  horribly  disgusted  with  every 
woman  upon  the  stage  ;  so  they  stroll  off  to  the  Valentino 
— are  more  disgusted  still,  and  return  to  their  hotel — 
Charles  Vivian  to  have  the  rest  of  the  quarrel  out,  and 
Guy,  more  fortunate,  to  enjoy  his  slumbers  undisturbed. 

The  next  day  was  an  immensely  happy  one, — the  first 
part,  at  all  events.  In  the  morning  he  met  Mrs.  Vivian 
and  her  friend  in  the  court-yard,  and  was  graciously 
allowed  to  escort  them  on  their  shopping  expedition. 
Milly  was  as  bright  as  a  lark,  full  of  fun  and  sprightliness 
— rallied  Guy  on  a  thousand  subjects,  laughed  at  him, 
smiled  at  him,  consulted  him  on  her  purchases,  and 


76  DOLORES. 

scolded  him  for  his  extravagance  in  buying  them  two 
magnificent  bouquets  from  a  window  in  the  Boulevards. 
They  lunched  together,  and  drove  in  the  Bois,  Milly  pro- 
vokingly  declaring  she  would  not  consent  to  his  going, 
as  he  had  told  her  only  two  days  before  he  thought  it 
awfully  stupid,  and  quite  beneath  a  man,  to  sit  behind 
horses  when  he  didn't  hold  the  reins  himself.  But  Guy 
laughed,  and  persisted,  declaring  that,  if  they  didn't  take 
him,  he  would  hire  the  very  worst  fiacre  on  the  stand,  and 
disgrace  them  by  bowing  pointedly  whenever  he  passed 
them.  So  they  chatted  all  sorts  of  gay  nonsense,  and 
time  sped  swiftly,  as  it  always  does  when  folk  are  happy. 

Guy  will  never  forget  that  day.  Poor  Guy !  Was  Cle- 
opatra, was  Semiramis — were  any  of  the  sirens  of  old  more 
seductive,  more  maddening  than  this  woman,  whose  glo- 
rious eyes  he  was  looking  into?  Guy  would  not  have 
admitted  it. 

How  bright  the  day  was  ! — how  blue  the  sky,  traversed 
by  clouds  like  little  white  puffs  of  swan-down  ! — how  the 
birds  sang  ! — how  blithe  and  insouciant  looked  the  Paris- 
ians, their  gayety  unshadowed  by  any  prescience  of  the 

bitter  future ! 

"  Du  mal  qu'un  amour  ignorf 

Nous  fait  souffrir, 
J'en  porte  1'ame  ddchiri 
Jusqu'a  mourir," 

hummed  Guy  from  the  lovely  "  Chanson  de  Fortunio," 
as  he  dressed ;  but  somehow  he  did  not  altogether  feel  as 
if  his  love  would  be  ignored,  and  that  he  should  carry  his 
broken  heart  to  the  grave. 


DOLORES  IN  PARIS.  77 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

DOLORES   IN   PARIS. 

DINNER  was  nearly  over,  when  a  waiter  came  in  and 
handed  a  slip  of  paper  to  Mr.  Vivian.  Was  the  gentle- 
man there,  he  asked,  whose  name  was  written? — he  had 
already  taken  it  to  three  rooms. 

"Sir  Guy  Wentworth,"  read  Mr.  Vivian,  handing  it 
across  the  table. 

"It  is  Monsieur?"  the  waiter  inquired. 

"Yes." 

Then  there  was  a  gentleman  below  who  desired  very 
particularly  to  see  him. 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment,"  said  Guy.  "It  is  most  likely 
Adrian.  May  I  bring  him  up,  if  it  is?" 

"By  all  means,"  and  rising,  Guy  followed  the  waitei 
down-stairs.  Just  outside  the  door  he  saw  his  servant. 

"What  is  it,  Stevens?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Guy,  for  disturbing  you," 
said  the  man,  hesitating  a  little,  "but  I  did  not  know 
what  to  do  under  the  circumstances." 

"What  is  it?    Be  quick  !"  exclaimed  Guy  impatiently. 

"  Well,  Sir  Guy,  the  fact  is,  I  just  met  the — the  young 
lady  at  Rouen  to  whom  you  sent  me  with  a  note,  and  she 
ran  up  to  me,  crying,  and  asking  to  be  taken  to  you,  and 
I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  thought  you  wouldn't  like 
me  to  leave  her  wandering  about  the  streets  by  herself  at 
this  time  of  night." 

"  Good  God  !"  cried  Guy,  involuntarily,  a  great  horroi 
creeping  across  him. 

7* 


yg  DOLORES. 

"And  so  I  took  her  to  the  hotel,  and  came  on  straight 
to  you,  Sir  Guy.  What  had  I  best  do?" 

"  Captain  Charteris  has  not  come,  has  he  ?"  Guy  asked, 
hurriedly. 

"  Well,  Sir  Guy,  I  just  saw  him  in  a  cab  as  I  crossed 
the  boulevards;  but  I  wouldn't  stop." 

Guy  muttered  a  furious  imprecation  under  his  breath. 

"I  will  come  at  once,"  he  said, — "stay,  take  a  cab 
and  go  back  to  the  hotel.  If  Captain  Charteris  is  in  the 
sitting-room  with. — with  the  lady,  make  some  excuse  and 
get  him  away  before  I  come." 

"Yes,  Sir  Guy;"  and  Stevens  hurried  off  with  a  face 
perfectly  inscrutable. 

Guy  tried  to  assume  an  indifferent  expression  as  he 
remounted  the  stairs,  but  when  he  entered  the  room  his 
face  was  so  white  and  anxious  that  every  eye  turned 
inquiringly  upon  him. 

"No  bad  news,  old  fellow,  I  hope?"  Mr.  Vivian  said 
hastily. 

"Oh,  no,  thanks — not  at  all.  Only  some  one  has 
come  a  long  way  to  see  me,  on  business,  and  is  at  the 
hotel  waiting  for  me  now.  I  am  very  sorry,  but  if  you 
will  excuse  me " 

"  Certainly,  certainly — by  all  means.  Shall  you  join 
us  at  the  theatre?" 

"  I  will  if  I  possibly  can ;  but " 

"  All  right,  my  dear  fellow;  don't  put  yourself  out  foi 
us.  If  you  can,  you  know,  we  shall  be  very  glad;  if 
not,  never  mind." 

"I  will  send  word,  at  all  events,"  said  Guy  hastily. 
"  I  do  not  know  until  I  get  to  the  hotel.  Good-by." 

"  Au  revoir,  I  hope,"  said  Milly  softly,  as  Guy  went 
out. 

He  ran  down-stairs  and  out  into  the  street  in  a  perfect 


DOLORES  IN  PARIS. 


79 


fever,  and,  jumping  into  a  cab,  bade  the  man  drive 
quickly  to  the  Hotel  Westminster. 

"If  Adrian  had  only  not  come,"  he  reflected.  "Of 
all  the  infernal  pieces  of  luck  I  ever  had,  this  is  about 
the  worst !  Of  course  he'll  make  something  out  of  it, 
and  I  shall  never  hear  the  last  of  it.  I  don't  mind  for 
myself;  but  that  poor  little  thing — what,  in  the  name 
of  Heaven,  shall  I  do  with  her?"  And  just  then  the 
fiacre  clattered  into  the  court-yard.  The  first  person  he 
saw  was  Captain  Charteris  leaning  against  the  door  with 
a  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

"How  are  you,  Guy,  old  fellow?"  he  said,  as  Guy 
jumped  out. 

"  All  right,  old  boy,  thanks.  Just  pay  this  fellow,  will 
you?" 

"I  haven't  a  farthing  of  French  money.  I  say,  Guy, 
this  is  hot  haste !  I  never  saw  you  so  eager  about  a 
petticoat  before." 

"For  God's  sake  hold  your  tongue,  Adrian.  You 
don't  understand  ;  I  will  explain  everything  presently." 

"I  tried  to  make  myself  agreeable,  but  your  little 
beauty  was  deucedly  sulky.  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out 
of  her." 

"You've  seen  her?"  exclaimed  Guy,  angrily.  "Then 
I  think  you'd  have  shown  better  taste  if  you  had  kept  out 
of  the  way." 

"  My  dear  fellow !  how  was  I  to  know?  I  went  naturally 
and  innocently  to  your  sitting-room,  little  expecting  to  find 
it  so  charmingly  occupied,  and " 

Guy  waited  for  no  more,  but  hurried  past  his  brother, 
and  ran  up-stairs.  He  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  and 
went  in.  A  slight  figure  came  towards  him,  came  tremu- 
lously, hesitatingly,  and  then  fell  at  his  feet  with  a  low 
sob. 


go  DOLORES. 

"Forgive  me,  monsieur!"  uttered  a  little,  piteous, 
wailing  voice. 

"Dolores!  my  dear  child  I  why  have  you  come?" 
cried  the  young  man,  quickly,  stooping  to  raise  her ;  but 
she  resisted  his  effort,  and  kept  her  face  turned  away 
from  him. 

"Dolores!"  he  repeated,  surprised  and  pained,  still 
holding  her  hands,  but  not  trying  any  longer  to  lift  her 
from  her  crouching  posture. 

"  Oh,  monsieur,  I  could  not  help  it !"  and  tears  came  in 
floods  now;  "you  went  away,  and  left  me  without  a  word. 
I  could  not  help  it.  I  should  have  died  without  you,  and 
I  have  followed  you — you  will  not  send  me  away?" 

He  lifted  her  up  in  his  arms  with  gentle  force,  and 
placed  her  on  the  sofa;  then  he  sat  down  beside  her, 
taking  her  hand. 

"My  little  one,"  he  said  with  great  tenderness,  "you 
have  done  yourself  a  great  wrong." 

"I  do  not  mind,"  cried  the  child  excitedly.  "What 
is  it  to  me,  if  I  can  only  be  near  you,  and  see  you  smile 
on  me  sometimes?  Oh,  monsieur  ! — Sir  Guy  !  you  won't 
send  me  away,  you  will  let  me  be  your  servant — your  slave 
— anything,  only  to  stay  with  you. ' ' 

A  sharp  pang  went  through  the  young  man's  heart.  He 
felt  as  if  he  had  done  this  innocent  child  some  grievous 
wrong. 

"Does  Marcelline  know  you  have  come?"  he  asked 
her,  still  holding  her  trembling  hands,  and  speaking  in 
the  same  kind  voice. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  cried  in  a  terrified  whisper.  "Marcelline 
knew  nothing  of  my  coming.  You  won't  send  me  back 
to  her?" 

"Tell  me;  my  child,"  he  said  softly,  "how  did  you 
come  without  her  knowing?" 


DOLORES  IN  PARIS.  8l 

"I  knew  she  would  be  for  two  hours  at  the  market  to- 
day, and  I  planned  it  all  last  night.  I  took  a  napoleon 
from  her  box,  and  I  ran  all  the  way  to  the  station.  When 
I  got  there  I  was  so  frightened,  but  I  took  courage  and 
came  on,  only  when  I  reached  Paris  and  found  how  large 
it  was  a  great  fear  took  me,  and  I  despaired  ever  to  find 
you.  Many  people  stopped  me,  and  would  have  taken 
me  to  their  homes,  but  I  refused  their  kindness,  and  then 
in  a  happy  moment  I  met  your  servant." 

"Thank  God  !"  said  Guy  devoutly,  under  his  breath. 
"Tell  me,  Dolores,  have  you  had  something  to  eat?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !"  she  cried  excitedly.  "  I  am  not  hun- 
gry. I  could  not  eat.1' 

Her  hands  were  burning  with  fever,  and  the  wildness 
in  her  eyes  frightened  him. 

"When  did  you  dine?"  he  asked  her. 

"  I  could  not  eat  my  dinner.    I  have  not  eaten  to-day." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  the  young  man,  seriously,  "  you 
will  be  ill;  you  must  eat  something.  Come,  to  please 
me,"  he  pleaded,  as  she  shook  her  head. 

"If  you  wish  it,"  she  answered  humbly. 

Sir  Guy  rose,  left  the  room  for  a  moment,  then  re- 
turned. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  resuming  his  place  beside  her — • 
"  now  you  must  eat  and  sleep  a  little,  and  early  to-morrow 
I  will  take  you  home." 

"  What !"  she  cried,  with  a  convulsive  start,  rising,  and 
standing  a  little  way  from  him,  with  wide-open  eyes,  and 
panting  breast,  "go  home — to  Rouen — to  Marcelline  ! 
I !  Oh,  monsieur !"  and  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees, 
with  the  tears  streaming  down  her  white  face,  "you  will 
not  be  so  cruel !  Let  me  stay — only  let  me  stay !  I  will 
be  so  good,  so  obedient.  I  will  do  all  you  say.  I  will 
never  trouble  you — only  let  me  stay  1" 
F 


8a  DOLORES. 

She  looked  so  lovely — her  anguish  was  so  real — the 
young  man  hesitated. 

"Child,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  voice  quite  low  and 
hoarse,  as  he  bent  over  her,  "you  don't  know  what  you 
are  asking." 

"  I  do — I  do  !"  she  cried,  with  piteous  persistency.  "I 
want  to  be  always  with  you  !" 

A  strong,  sudden  impulse  attracted  him  to  this  lovely 
child,  and  made  him  long  to  say,  "  Stay,  darling,  and  be 
happy !"  So  dear  is  it  to  the  heart  of  a  man  to  be  fondly 
loved.  But  he  checked  the  thought  almost  before  it  rose, 
and  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  speaking  in  a  low,  grave 
voice. 

"Little  one,"  he  said,  "if  I  were  to  grant  what  you 
ask  I  should  be  a  villain.  It  would  blight  all  your  life. 
Some  day  you  would  hate  me,  and  I  should  never  forgive 
myself." 

"I  should  never  hate  you,"  she  whispered,  fixing  her 
lustrous  eyes,  that  shone  with  tears,  upon  him. 

"It  cannot  be,  Dolores;  it  is  impossible." 

"  Impossible  !"  she  said,  rising,  whilst  the  color  deep- 
ened red  upon  her  cheeks.  "You  hate  me,  then ?" 

"Oh,  child,  you  don't  understand"  (in  a  pained 
voice).  "/  hate  you!  No,  I  love  you  like  a  dear 
little  sister,  whom  I  would  shield  from  every  thought  of 
harm." 

"  Then  let  me  stay  and  be  your  sister." 

"But,  little  one,  it  is  not  possible.  You  do  not  know 
the  ways  of  the  world." 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  them,  if  they  take  me  from 
you.  Oh,  Sir  Guy,  do  not  think  me  bold  and  presump- 
tuous that  I  entreat  you  so ;  but  I  shall  break  my  heart 
if  you  send  me  away." 

"  Dear  child,  it  is  for  your  own  sake,"  cried  the  young 


DOLORES  IN  PARIS.  83 

man,  half  beside  himself.  "I  would  gladly  have  you 
always  with  me." 

"Why  should  you  mind,  if  I  do  not?"  she  urged, 
impetuously. 

She  looked  so  lovely  in  her  impassioned  eagerness — 
this  little  girl,  half  French,  half  English,  praying  so 
passionately  in  her  childish  innocence,  that  Sir  Guy  was 
half  unmanned.  The  door  opened,  and  his  servant  en- 
tered with  a  tray. 

"I  must  leave  you  for  a  few  minutes,"  he  whispered. 
"  Let  me  find  you  have  eaten  when  I  return." 

"You  will  come  back?"  she  entreated,  with  fright- 
ened eyes. 

"Yes,  I  promise,"  he  answered,  reassuringly.  "In 
half  an  hour,  at  the  furthest." 

And  then  he  went  down-stairs,  and,  crossing  the  court- 
yard of  the  hotel,  walked  out  into  the  busy  street.  A 
gay  crowd  passed  him, — laughing,  chatting,  pausing  every 
now  and  then  to  look  in  the  brilliantly-lighted  shops  at 
the  great  diamonds  and  emeralds,  the  pearls  and  rubies, 
flashing  in  the  gaslight.  He  crossed  over,  away  from  the 
sounds  and  sights  that  jarred  on  him,  to  the  Place  Ven- 
dome,  and  stood  by  the  railings  of  the  great  column  of 
the  trophies  of  France. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  he  asked  himself  a  thousand  times, 
as  the  kneeling  figure,  with  great  wistful  eyes,  haunted 
him.  "  Poor  little  soul  1  Perhaps  they  have  already 
raised  a  hue  and  cry  after  her  in  the  town,  and  all  is 
known,  or  guessed,  even  now.  How  can  I  send  her  back 
to  face  the  torrent  of  reproaches,  the  sneers,  the  cruel 
insults,  that  will  be  heaped  upon  her,  pure  and  innocent 
though  she  is  ?  Surely  it  would  be  better  to  let  her  stay. 
Whatever  happened,  she  could  not  be  so  miserable 
with  me  as  left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  her  own  sex. 


84  DOLORES. 

How  cruel  women  can  be  to  each  other !  And  she  loves 
me  with  the  first  strong  impulse  of  her  unsullied  child's 
heart.  Perhaps  I  shall  never  be  loved  like  this  again." 
And  then  he  thought  of  Milly,  brilliant,  winning,  gra- 
cious, and  his  heart  was  torn  by  fresh  emotions.  "  To  be 
loved  by  a  woman  like  that!"  he  said  to  himself;  "a 
woman  of  whom  one  could  never  tire,  of  whom  one 
would  be  so  proud  !  She  may  never  care  for  me,  I  may 
never  be  able  to  win  her,  but  even  with  the  barest  shadow 
of  a  possibility  of  such  happiness,  to  cast  it  from  me,  and, 
out  of  simple  compassion,  to  tie  my  whole  life  to  a  child, 
a  doll,  who  would  weary  me  to  death  in  a  month — im- 
possible !  Poor  little  soul !  If  I  have  wronged  her  by 
thoughtlessness  and  want  of  consideration,  I  would  bear 
any  pain,  or  make  any  sacrifice,  to  atone  to  her,  and 
bring  back  happiness  to  her  poor  little  heart;  but  to 
marry  her — impossible.  And  I  swear  before  heaven  she 
never  shall  suffer  harm  or  wrong  through  me,  or  any  one 
else,  while  I  have  a  strong  arm  to  shield  her.  Poor  Mar- 
celline  !  what  an  agony  she  will  be  in  !  If  she  only  has 
the  sense  to  keep  everything  quiet " 

A  sudden  thought  struck  Sir  Guy,  and  he  went  back  to 
the  hotel,  and  sent  for  his  servant. 

"Stevens,"  he  said,  when  the  man  came,  "I  want  you 
to  find  out  about  the  trains  for  Rouen.  You  must  go  by 
the  very  next  yourself.  I  have  a  letter  for  you  to  take 
to  the  house  up  by  the  Barriere  d'Ernemont — and  I  am 
going  myself,  early  to-morrow." 

"Very  well,  sir.  I  will  inquire  about  the  trains,  and 
come  back  for  the  letter.  How  soon  will  it  be  ready." 

"  In  five  minutes. "  And  Guy  went  to  his  room  and 
wrote : 

"Miss  Power  is  in  Paris,  and  quite  safe.  If  possible, 
let  no  one  know  that  she  is  absent  from  home.  I  swear 


DOLORES  IN  PARIS.  8$ 

to  bring  her  back  to  you  to-morrow.    She  is  as  safe  under 
my  care  as  if  she  were  my  own  sister." 

Then  he  went  to  look  for  his  brother,  and  found  him 
dining  in  the  salle-d-manger. 

"Adrian,"  he  said,  sitting  down  opposite  to  him  at  the 
little  table,  "  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 

"  All  right,  old  fellow.     What  is  it  ?" 

"The  Vivians  are  here;  I've  just  been  dining  with 
them,  and  we  were  to  have  gone  to  the  theatre  together. 
Will  you  go  instead,  and  say  that  business  detains  me  all 
this  evening  and  to-morrow,  but  I  hope  to  see  them  in  a 
day  or  two,  and  make  my  excuses?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I'll  say  it's  business  of  a  most  important 
nature:  couldn't  possibly  wait.  I  say,  Guy,  I'm  not  in- 
quisitive,— I  know  it's  not  good  form  to  ask  questions, — 
but  this  child, — she  isn't  much  more  than  a  baby, — what 
the  deuce  is  she  doing  in  your  rooms?  It's  not  quite 
your  style." 

"  Don't  run  away  with  any  false  notions,"  answered 
Guy,  hurriedly.  "  I  can't  explain  it  to  you  now,  but  you 
may  take  my  word  of  honor  that  she  is  a  lady,  and  as  pure 
and  innocent  as  a  child  at  its  mother's  breast.  She  lost 
her  way  in  Paris ;  Stevens  luckily  met  her,  and  I  am  going 
to  take  her  home." 

Captain  Charteris  gave  a  suppressed  whistle,  and  looked 
incredulous. 

"I  haven't  time  to  bandy  words,"  said  Guy,  hotly. 
"  Will  you  do  as  I  ask  you?" 

"  The  Vivians  are  rather  heavy  after  a  long  day's  trav- 
eling, my  dear  fellow." 

"  There  is  another  lady  with  them."  And  Guy  colored 
a  little,  and  felt  almost  jealous  that  his  brother  was  going 
to  see  her. 

"Nice?"  Captain  Charteris  asked. 
8 


86  DOLORES. 

"Yes,"  briefly. 

"All  right,  then,  I'll  go.  No  occasion  to  dress,  I 
suppose  ?' ' 

"I  dare  say  they'll  excuse  that.  I  may  be  back  to- 
morrow night.  At  all  events,  I  shall  rely  on  your  ex- 
plaining everything,  so  that " 

"  No  one  suspects  the  truth." 

You  can't  knock  a  man  down  for  curving  the  corners 
of  his  lips  upwards,  or  elevating  his  eyebrows  the  sixteenth 
part  of  an  inch,  particularly  if  the  man  happens  to  be 
your  brother.  For  the  moment  Guy  rather  wished  you 
could. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

POOR   DOLORES. 

SIR  GUY  went  back  to  the  little  room  where  he  had  left 
Dolores.  He  found  her  cowering  up  in  a  corner  of  the 
sofa,  and,  glancing  towards  the  table,  he  perceived  that 
she  had  not  touched  the  food  which  had  been  brought 
her. 

"You  promised  me  to  eat  something,"  he  said,  going 
up  to  her.  "Is  there  nothing  here  you  like?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed  there  is;  but  I  cannot  eat." 

"  Come,  my  child,  you  must  try.  Now,  sit  down  here. 
I  will  have  some  with  you,  and  you  shall  pour  out  the 
coffee.  Why,  it  is  quite  cold !  I  will  ring  for  some 
more." 

The  child's  eyes  glistened.  If  he  would  eat,  that  was 
different,  and  she  would  so  like  to  pour  out  coffee  for 
him.  Then  he  talked  kindly  to  her,  and  coaxed  her. 


POOR  DOLORES.  87 

and  she  began  to  smile  and  feel  happy ;  she  thought  now 
he  would  always  let  her  stay. 

"  It  is  not  half  sweet  enough,"  he  said,  holding  his  cup 
across  to  her ;  and  she  smiled  at  him  and  popped  a  great 
lump  of  sugar  into  it. 

At  that  moment  a  waiter  threw  the  door  open  and  came 
in,  and  some  one  passed  along  the  corridor.  It  was  Mrs. 
Scarlett.  She  half  paused  in  her  surprise  at  seeing  Sir 
Guy  sitting  opposite  to  a  pretty,  smiling  young  girl,  and 
then  hurried  on  ;  no  one  in  the  room  observed  her. 

Guy,  all  unconscious,  was  sitting  tete-a-tete  with  Dolores 
in  the  little  salon  at  the  hotel.  She  dared  not  ask  him 
any  questions  about  the  morrow,  and  he  never  once  alluded 
to  it,  but  talked  to  her  of  the  wonders  of  Paris,  and  kept 
her  smiling  and  amused.  Presently  he  took  out  his  watch. 

"It  is  time  for  all  good  children  to  be  in  bed,"  he 
said,  rising.  "I  shall  send  for  the  femme  de  chambre, 
and  she  will  do  everything  for  you.  To-morrow  you  must 
get  up  early,  and  come  into  breakfast  with  me  at  eight 
o'clock.  Mind  you  sleep  well.  Good-night,  little  one," 
and  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

The  color  mounted  to  the  child's  face,  and  she  shrank 
back  a  little. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  dear,"  said  Guy  kindly. 
"  That  is  how  we  always  say  good-night  to  our  little  sisters 
in  England ;"  and  Dolores  went  away  smiling,  and  saying 
to  herself,  "  He  will  let  me  stay  now." 

Guy  went  out  again  into  the  streets,  feeling  vexed  and 
unsettled,  hardly  knowing  what  to  do  with  himself,  and 
dreading  horribly  the  scene  that  must  inevitably  come  in 
the  morning.  He  did  not  want  to  see  the  Vivians,  nor 
Mrs.  Scarlett,  nor  his  brother.  They  were  so  different, 
the  two  men — most  of  all  in  their  codes  of  honor.  Guy 
knew  perfectly  well  that  if  he  told  Captain  Charteris  the 


88  DOLORES. 

truth  his  only  answer  would  be  a  shrug,  or  an  incredulous 
smile ;  if  Adrian  believed  him,  he  would  consider  him  a 
fool ;  and  so  Guy  preferred  to  avoid  a  meeting. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  went  in  to  breakfast,  Dolores 
was  already  there,  looking  out  of  the  window.  She  came 
forward  eagerly,  and  put  up  her  face  to  him,  since  thai 
was  the  English  custom,  and  he  kissed  her  gravely  and 
kindly. 

" Have  you  slept  well?"  he  asked  her. 

No,  she  had  not  slept  much,  but  she  was  so  happy  at 
being  in  Paris,  the  hours  had  not  seemed  long.  Then 
they  drew  up  to  the  table,  and  she  poured  out  coffee  for 
him,  as  she  had  done  the  night  before,  and  felt  as  if  a 
kind  of  paradise  had  opened  upon  her. 

"It  is  you  who  do  not  eat  this  morning,"  she  said 
playfully.  "  See  how  hungry  I  am,  and  how  I  have  eaten 
more  than  my  share  of  all  the  good  things." 

As  for  Guy,  he  could  not  swallow  a  morsel ;  he  felt  as 
if  it  would  choke  him.  When  Dolores  had  finished,  he 
looked  at  his  watch. 

"Will  you  go  and  put  on  your  hat?"  he  said,  getting 
up  suddenly,  with  a  painful  feeling  of  embarrassment ;  it 
must  come  now,  and  he  had  the  true  Englishman's  horror 
of  a  scene. 

The  child's  color  came  and  went,  and  she  trembled. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  take  me?"  she  asked. 

"I  can't  deceive  you,"  he  said,  going  up  to  her  and 
taking  both  her  hands  in  his;  "  I  must  take  you  home.  I 
have  sent  word  to  Marcelline  that  you  shall  be  safe  with 
her  to-day. ' '  And  then  Dolores  broke  into  a  passion  of 
tears  and  sobs,  every  one  of  which  went  straight  to  Guy's 
heart.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  some  cruel  monster  who  had 
wittingly  robbed  this  poor  little  lamb  of  her  peace  and 
happiness  and  broken  her  heart.  "  What  shall  I  do?"  he 


POOR  DOLORES.  89 

groaned  to  himself,  and  he  tried  to  take  her  in  his  arms 
as  he  would  have  done  a  little  sorrowful  child.  But  she 
tore  herself  from  him,  and  gasped  out  bitter,  incoherent 
words,  hardly  intelligible  through  her  sobs. 

"  I  will  not  go  back — I  will  die  !  I  will  never  see  Mar- 
celline  or  mamma  again.  Send  me  out  in  the  streets  to 
die  !  I  care  not ;  you  are  so  cruel,  whom  I  believed  so 
good  and  kind  I  It  is  nothing  to  you.  Let  me  go  away 
and  die  !" 

Guy  was  beside  himself;  he  called  her  by  all  the  most 
endearing  names ;  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  laid  her 
head  upon  his  breast,  while  his  own  eyes  were  wet  with 
unshed  tears  for  very  pity  of  the  big  drops  that  rained 
down  the  pale,  piteous  face.  Had  it  not  been  for  the 
thought  of  his  promise  to  Marcelline,  he  would  almost 
have  resolved  to  keep  her  with  him  altogether.  He  waited 
with  the  patience  of  a  woman  until  the  fitful  sobs  began 
to  die  away,  only  now  and  then  stroking  the  brown  hair 
and  uttering  some  soothing  word ;  and  when  the  panting 
chest  began  to  heave  less  painfully,  and  the  great  drops 
came  slower,  he  said  to  her,  "Let  me  talk  to  you,  little 
one,  and  try  to  listen  to  me  reasonably  and  calmly,  like 
a  woman." 

And  Dolores  said  humbly, — 

"  Continue,  monsieur.     I  will  listen." 

"If  I  thought  it  would  be  for  our  happiness,  dear,  to 
be  always  together — if  I  felt  or  believed  I  could  always 
love  you,  and  never  weary  of  you,  or  you  of  me,  I  would 
make  you  my  wife  at  once." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  interrupted  Dolores,  with 
a  stifled  sob. 

"But,  my  dear  child,  you  do  not  understand  these 
things.  All  your  simple,  innocent  life  you  have  lived 
upon  that  hill  over  Rouen  ;  you  have  never  seen  the 

8* 


90  DOLORES. 

world,  or  heard  of  its  ways ;  you  don't  even  know  what  con- 
stitutes sin  and  wickedness.  If  I  took  advantage  of  your 
innocence  and  ignorance,  I  should  be  a  'blackguard.'  " 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Dolores,  shaking  her  head.  "You 
could  never  do  anything  wrong  or  wicked." 

Guy  was  half  beside  himself. 

"  If  you  stayed  with  me,  Dolores,  and  I  did  not  marry 
you,  the  world  would  despise  and  scorn  you,  and  would 
call  me  a  dishonorable  villain." 

"  Why  should  they  scorn  me  ? — the  bad,  cruel  world  !" 

"  You  cannot  argue  with  me,  child — you  do  not  under- 
stand, and  I  cannot  explain  to  you;  indeed,  you  must 
trust  me,  and  believe  that  what  I  say  is  for  your  good." 

"You  are  very  cruel !"  cried  Dolores,  amid  fresh  sobs. 
"  You  do  not  care  if  my  heart  breaks,  or  if  I  die  !"  And 
then  she  fell  on  her  knees,  and  put  up  her  two  little  hands 
like  a  child  praying,  and  said  piteously  through  her  tears, 
"  Have  pity  on  me  !" 

After  all,  Guy  was  flesh  and  blood,  not  a  stock  or  stone, 
insensible  to  passion  or  beauty,  or  anything  else  that  men 
are  touched  by.  He  felt  the  blood  rushing  to  his  brain,  and 
a  strong  desire  possessing  him  to  sacrifice  right,  honor, 
conscience — everything — for  the  sake  of  the  kneeling  figure 
before  him.  For  one  moment  he  forgot  Milly — forgot 
honor — forgot  all  but  the  beautiful-eyed,  pleading  child, 
who  loved  him  so  dearly,  so  utterly ;  and  he  snatched  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  a  thousand  times.  Then,  over- 
come by  a  sudden  horror  of  remorse,  he  fled  from  the  room. 

"She  shall  go — she  must  go!"  he  cried  to  himself, 
pacing  up  and  down  his  room  in  a  perfect  fever.  "What 
can  I  say  to  her  ?  Marcelline  will  be  waiting  in  an  agony. 
I  have  given  my  word,  and  how,  in  heaven's  name,  can  I 
break  it,  without  being  the  greatest  blackguard  on  the 
face  of  the  earth?" 


POOR  DOLORES. 


9« 


Then  he  caught  sight  of  a  great  cloak  and  veil  he  had 
sent  for  to  disguise  Dolores  on  her  journey;  he  threw 
them  over  his  arm  and  went  back  to  the  room. 

"  Child,"  he  said,  forcing  his  voice  into  harshness, 
"  you  must  put  on  this  cloak  and  veil  and  come  with  me 
at  once.  The  train  leaves  in  half  an  hour." 

The  girl  rose  from  the  sofa  and  stood  before  him,  proud 
and  defiant. 

"  Good -by,  monsieur.  Since  you  send  me  away,  I  go, 
Dut  I  will  never  return  home.  Why  should  I  ?  The  Seine 
runs  quite  near;  and  then — then  I  shall  never  trouble 
any  one  any  more."  But  the  voice  that  tried  so  hard  to 
be  firm  failed  utterly. 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  little  one,"  Guy  said,  very  ten- 
derly. "You  make  me  cruel.  Some  day  you  will  know 
that  by  parting  from  you  I  gave  you  the  strongest  proof 
of  my  love." 

"If  you  loved  me,  you  would  not  part  from  me." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Guy,  in  desperation,  "say  I 
do  not  love  you.  Would  you  force  me  to  pass  all  my  life 
with  a  woman  I  did  not  love?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  monsieur,"  cried  the  poor  child, 
stung. to  the  very  quick.  "I  did  not  believe  you  hated 
me.  I  see  now  how  poor  and  disgraced  I  must  seem  in 
your  eyes.  Let  me  go !  I  will  never  trouble  you  any 
more!"  And,  blind  with  pain  and  shameful  tears,  she 
tried  to  force  her  way  past  him  to  the  street. 

"  Dolores,  before  you  leave  me,  tell  me  one  thing," 
said  Guy,  detaining  her  by  force.  "Are  you  just  ?  Have 
I  ever  wronged  or  been  cruel  to  you  ?  Have  I  tried  to 
make  you  love  me  with  soft  words  or  false  promises?" 

"No,  monsieur,  it  was  my  own  foolishness,"  she 
answered,  bitterly. 

"I  do  love  you,  dear  child — love  you  very  dearly.     I 


pa  DOLORES. 

will  always  be  your  friend  as  long  as  I  live — will  shield  you 
from  harm,  from  sorrow  or  danger,  as  much  as  lies  in  my 
power.  If  ever  you  want  me  I  will  come  to  you  at  once." 

"If,"  said  Dolores  wistfully,  looking  up  at  his  kind, 
earnest  face  through  a  mist  of  tears — "  if  I  go  back  home 
with  you  now,  will  you  promise  they  shall  not  be  angry  01 
cruel  with  me  ?' ' 

"I  promise,  on  my  sacred  word  of  honor,  if  any  one 
is  cruel  to  you,  to  take  you  away,  and  place  you  among 
those  who  will  be  kind  to  you." 

"And  will  you  come  and  see  me  sometimes — just  once 
now  and  then — that  I  may  not  die  of  the  misery  of  think- 
ing I  shall  never  see  you  again  ?' ' 

"I  promise  that  too.  And  now,  little  one,  wrap  your- 
self up  in  these  things,  and  we  will  go  together." 

"  Monsieur,  I  weary  you ;  but  may  I  ask  one  little  thing 
more  of  you?" 

"Anything  in  the  world  that  is  possible,  my  child." 

"Will  you  stay  in  Rouen  all  to-morrow,  and  not  go 
away  until  Monday?" 

Guy  paused  a  moment,  and  then  promised.  Half  an 
hour  later  they  were  in  the  train,  on  their  way  to  Rouen. 
Dolores  scarcely  spoke  a  word.  She  only  answered, 
"Yes,  monsieur,"  "No,  monsieur,"  when  her  com- 
panion addressed  her;  but  when  he  closed  his  eyes,  or 
turned  away  to  the  window,  she  watched  him  furtively, 
with  eyes  brimful  of  tears.  She  was  saying  to  herself,— 

"  If  only  this  miserable  journey  would  last  forever,  that 
I  might  at  least  see  his  face,  or  hear  his  kind  voice  ! ' ' 

"See,  there  is  a  handsome  chateau!"  or,  "That  is 
quite  an  English  bit  of  scenery,"  Guy  would  say;  and  she 
answered,  "Yes,  monsieur;"  but  she  was  not  thinking 
of  what  he  said,  only  of  him. 

And  then  at  last  the  train  arrived  at  Rouen,  and  he 


POOR  DOLORES. 


93 


wrapped  the  cloak  and  veil  tenderly  round  her,  so  that  no 
one  might  by  chance  recognize  her  face  or  figure.  As 
they  stopped,  he  saw  Marcelline's  face  gazing  up  from 
the  platform,  not  comely  and  cheerful,  as  was  its  wont, 
but  eager,  haggard,  worn.  Guy  stepped  out  quickly,  and 
whispered, — 

"  Do  not  seem  to  notice  her.  I  will  take  her  up  in  a 
carriage  to  the  house;  you  must  follow  on  foot." 

"Do  not  drive  up  to  the  gate,"  she  returned,  in  a 
hurried  whisper;  and  then  she  disappeared. 

Guy  lifted  Dolores  out,  and  put  her  into  one  of  the 
station  cabs,  getting  in  after  her. 

"Drive  to  the  church  of  St.  Ouen,"  he  said  to  the 
man. 

The  poor  child  leaned  back  against  the  dusty  blue 
cushions  in  silence  as  the  shaky  conveyance  rattled  and 
jumbled  past  the  scenes  which  she  seemed  to  have  left 
ages  ago,  instead  of  only  the  day  betore.  They  passed 
the  barracks,  and  along  the  quay,  and  then  turned  up  the 
Rue  Grand  Pont  and  the  Rue  des  Carmes.  There  were 
no  eager  glances  at  the  gay  shops  now.  What  cared 
Dolores  for  the  bijouterie  or  pictures,  the  bright  nick- 
nacks  or  the  admiring  glances  of  the  slim-waisted  young 
officers  ? 

At  the  door  of  St.  Ouen  they  stopped,  and  Guy  helped 
out  the  cloak  and  veiled  figure. 

"Go  in,"  he  whispered,  "and  I  will  wait  for  Mar- 
celline." 

"I  shall  see  you  again?"  she  cried,  feverishly. 

"Yes,  dear;  I  am  only  going  to  wait  outside.  I  will 
explain  everything  to  Marcelline,  and  she  shall  not  utter 
one  word  of  reproach  to  you."  And  then  Dolores  went 
in,  and  the  door  closed  between  her  and  all  she  loved  or 
valued  in  life. 


94  DOLORES. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  were  going  into  her  grave, 
the  vast  vaulted  aisle  struck  her  so  chill  and  cold,  and 
each  footstep  echoed  dismally.  She  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  rush-bottomed  chairs,  and  laid  her  face  against  the 
back  of  another,  and  the  tears  came  raining  again  from 
her  weary  eyes,  and  there  was  a  numb,  chill  pain  at  her 
heart.  What,  to  her,  was  bright  coloring,  or  rose  win- 
dows, or  beautifully  decked  shrines  now  ?  She  only  knew 
and  thought  that  there  was  one  supreme  happiness  in  life 
— that  was  love;  one  intense,  heart-breaking  misery — 
that  was  love ;  one  thing  to  desire — that  was  death.  She 
did  not  know  into  what  sweet  lines  that  bitter,  aching 
thought  had  been  woven  by  a  great  poet.  Why  should 
saddest  themes  make  sweetest  music  ? 

"  Sweet  is  true  love,  though  given  in  vain,  in  vain, 
And  sweet  is  death,  who  puts  an  end  to  pain ; 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter — no,  not  I. 

"  Love,  art  thou  sweet  ? — then  bitter  death  must  be ; 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death  to  me — 
O  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die." 

Poor  little,  impatient,  sorrowful  heart !  But  sorrow 
comes  so  hard  to  the  young. 

Meantime,  Guy  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  Place  out- 
side, waiting  for  Marcelline,  and  looking  in  a  desultory 
way  at  the  statue  of  Napoleon  and  the  Lantern  Tower. 
Presently  she  appeared,  toiling  and  out  of  breath,  and  he 
hastened  forward  to  meet  her. 

"Oh,  monsieur,  monDieu!  monDieu!  what  a  terrible 
affair  !  What  is  to  be  done?"  she  cried,  holding  up  her 
hands. 

"  Come  inside  the  doorway,  where  we  shall  not  be  dis- 
turbed," said  Guy.  "  Now  tell  me — is  anything  known  ?" 


POOR  DOLORES.  95 

"  Non,  non,  monsieur.  Grace  a  Dieu,  rien,  rien,  rien 
du  tout!" 

"  Thank  God  !     Have  you  seen  my  servant?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur.  Ah  1  you  are  an  angel  of  goodness  I" 
and,  to  the  young  man's  confusion,  she  seized  his  hand 
and  kissed  it. 

"Tell  me,  Marcelline,  what  did  you  do  when  you  re- 
turned and  found  the  poor  child  gone?" 

"Ah,  monsieur,  I  was  like  one  mad.  I  asked  Jean- 
neton  where  was  Mademoiselle,  and  she  had  not  seen  her, 
and  came  about  curiously,  questioning  me;  but  I  said  it 
was  nothing,  though  my  heart  failed  me.  I  had  told 
Mademoiselle  to  come  and  meet  me,  and  we  had  missed 
on  the  road.  Then  I  sent  Jeanneton  home,  that  I  might 
not  betray  myself;  and  this  morning,  when  she  came  and 
asked  me  where  I  found  Mademoiselle,  I  told  her  she  had 
been  in  the  church,  and  that  now  she  was  in  her  own 
room,  tired,  and  sleeping  late.  But  last  night,  when 
Jeanneton  was  gone,  I  hastened  and  searched  for  the 
child's  clothes;  and  when  I  found  her  best  things  miss- 
ing, and  the  money  gone  from  my  work-box,  a  great 
despair  filled  me,  and  I  said  to  myself,  '  She  is  gone  to 
seek  him.'  Then  I  locked  the  house,  and  ran  down  to 
the  Gare,  and  asked  when  a  train  had  gone  for  Paris,  and 
they  told  me  nearly  two  hours  since.  I  went  to  the  Bu- 
reau, and  asked  the  gentleman  who  looks  through  a  little 
window  if  he  had  seen  a  young  lady,  quite  young,  and  all 
alone,  with  a  gray  dress  and  hat,  and  he  said  yes,  he  re- 
membered such  a  one — he  believed  she  had  gone  to 
Amiens,  but  there  had  been  a  dark  gentleman  speaking 
to  her.  Then  there  came  another  official,  and  he  said, 
'  No,  the  little  fair  demoiselle  was  gone  to  Paris,'  but  the 
first  still  said  Amiens.  Then,  monsieur,  my  heart  sank 
within  me.  I  knew  not  how  to  act.  The  demoiselle 


96  DOLORES. 

might  not  have  been  my  child,  after  all  j  if  I  went  away, 
and  locked  up  the  house,  the  neighbors  would  break  open 
the  door,  and  everything  be  discovered;  if  I  went  to 
Paris,  how  in  all  the  great  city  should  I  find  the  little 
one  ?  I  despaired — I  wrung  my  hands — I  was  distracted. 
When  I  thought  of  the  child  alone  in  Paris,  knowing 
nothing,  knowing  no  one,  I  almost  resolved  to  throw  my- 
self into  the  Seine.  For  a  moment  a  doubt  of  you,  mon- 
sieur, came  to  me — the  Holy  Virgin  pardon  me  that  I 
should  ever  have  suspected  any  one  so  good,  so  noble,  so 
generous !  but  the  hearts  of  men  are  evil,  and  the  little 
one  is  beautiful.  But  what  could  I  do  ?  Then  I  said,  I 
will  wait  until  to-morrow — it  may  be  she  will  return.  I 
went  home — all  was  dark  and  desolate ;  she  was  not  there. 
I  went  into  the  church,  and  I  prayed  to  the  Holy  Virgin 
to  help  me — ah,  monsieur,  as  I  had  never  prayed  in  my 
life  before ;  and  I  vowed  to  her  every  sou  of  the  money 
you  had  given  me  in  candles  for  the  little  one's  safe  re- 
turn. Ah,  the  accursed  gold  !  It  seemed  to  me  as  the 
thirty  pieces  for  which  Judas  sold  the  Blessed  Saviour. 
Then  I  went  back  to  the  house,  and  wandered  to  and  fro, 
listening  to  every  sound,  thinking  it  might  be  the  little 
one  come  back,  and  going  every  hour  to  the  gate ;  and 
very  early  this  morning  came  your  letter,  and  I  wellnigh 
went  mad  for  joy  and  for  happiness  to  think  I  had  be- 
trayed my  horror  to  no  one.  Ah,  monsieur,  tell  me,  I 
pray,  how  it  was  that  you  found  the  child  in  the  great 
city,  where  she  must  have  been  lost  a  thousand  times  but 
for  the  mercy  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  1" 


BON  SECOURS.  97 

CHAPTER    X. 

BON   SECOURS. 

AND  Guy  told  her  what  we  already  know. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "promise  me  never  to  utter  a  harsh 
word  or  a  reproach  to  the  poor  child  on  the  subject." 

"  I,  monsieur  ?  Man  Dieu  /  I  make  reproaches  to  the 
little  innocent !  Do  you  take  me  for  a  barbarous  one?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  you  to  be  all  that  is  kind 
and  tender.  We  will  go  to  her  now,  and  this  afternoon 
I  am  coming  up  to  see  her.  To-morrow,  also,  I  have 
promised  to  remain  in  Rouen." 

Marcelline  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  doubtfully,  but 
she  had  not  courage  to  oppose,  even  by  i  word,  this  man 
whom  she  looked  upon  as  a  marvel  of  nobleness  and  gen- 
erosity. Then  they  went  up  the  aisle  together,  and  found 
Dolores,  with  her  face  still  buried  in  her  hands. 

"  Pauvre  chou  /"  murmured  Marcelline,  her  eyes  filling 
with  tears  as  she  laid  a  kind  hand  on  the  child's  shoulder. 
Then  she  took  her  gently  by  the  arm,  saying,  "  Come 
home  with  me,  my  lamb." 

Guy  stooped  down  and  whispered, — 

"  Go  with  her,  dear.  I  will  come  and  see  you  at  four 
this  afternoon." 

Then  Dolores  took  heart,  and,  drying  her  tears,  went 
away  up  the  hill  with  Marcelline ;  and  Guy  stayed  behind 
in  the  great  church,  feeling  sore  grieved  and  perplexed. 

"Would  to  God  I  had  never  followed  her  in  here  the 
first  time  !"  he  said  to  himself.     "  If  I  could  only  undo 
what  I  have  unwittingly  done,  what  would  I  not  give  I" 
G  .       9 


98  DOLORES. 

It  tortured  him  horribly  to  think  of  the  tear-stained  face 
and  sobbing  mouth ;  he  who  would  not  willingly  have 
given  pain  to  any  one  or  anything  on  earth.  "  She  is 
only  a  child,"  he  tried  to  comfort  himself  by  saying; 
"she  will  soon  forget."  But  he  knew  that  in  the  nature 
of  things  it  could  not  be  yet  awhile.  A  young  beauty  in 
the  world  of  fashion  may  soon  lose  the  heart-ache  in  a 
whirl  of  continual  excitement,  but  this  poor  child,  with  no 
resources  or  amusements,  leading  a  dull,  monotonous  life 
in  this  old  town — what  had  she  to  do  but  nurse  and  foster 
her  sorrow,  until  it  grew  into  a  burden  too  heavy  for  her 
poor  frail  nature  to  bear  ? 

As  he  stood  leaning  against  the  great  column,  he  asked 
himself  seriously  whether  he  was  not  in  honor  bound  to 
marry  the  girl  whom  he  had  wronged,  however  uninten- 
tionally. She  was  a  dear  lovable  thing.  Then  he  re- 
membered the  misery  he  had  seen  among  his  friends  from 
incongruous  marriages,  and  how  bitterly  some  of  them 
had  repented,  and  he  felt  it  was  impossible. 

Presently  he  left  the  church,  and  wandered  down  among 
the  old  streets  that  had  interested  him  so  much  only  a 
week  ago;  the  curious  old  market-place,  the  Rue  des 
Arpents,  the  Rue  Malpalue.  Then,  bethinking  himself 
of  his  servant,  he  went  down  to  the  quay.  Stevens  was 
standing  at  the  door,  talking  to  the  landlord. 

"There  is  a  room  disengaged  on  the  first  floor,  Sir  Guy, 
if  you  like  to  have  it,"  the  discreet  valet  said,  touching 
his  hat. 

"Very  well,"  Guy  answered,  "I  shall  probably  stay 
until  Monday  morning,  but  you  can  go  back  to  Paris. 
Tell  Captain  Charteris  he  may  expect  me  on  Monday,  but 
that  I  shall  write." 

In  the  afternoon,  even  before  four  o'clock,  Guy  was 
standing  at  the  gate  of  the  white  house  on  the  hill. 


BON  SECOURS.  99 

Dolores  was  not  there  waiting  for  him  as  she  used  to  wait, 
straining  eager  eyes  and  welcoming  him  with  glad  smiles 
a  long  way  off;  Marcelline  was  there  instead. 

"How  is  she?"  the  young  man  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"She  has  poured  out  tears  in  torrents,  has  spoken  little, 
and  I  have  hardly  persuaded  her  to  taste  a  mouthful  of 
food.1' 

"Poor  little  soul!"  said  Guy,  filled  with  compassion. 
"Be  good  to  her,"  and  he  would  have  placed  five  napo- 
leons in  Marcelline's  hand,  but  she  started  back  as  if 
something  had  stung  her. 

"No,  no,  no,  monsieur!  a  thousand  times  no!  I  will 
never  take  any  one's  gold  again  that  I  have  not  earned, 
and  I  need  no  bribe  to  be  kind  to  the  poor  little  one." 

"I  am  sure  you  don't,"  said  Guy,  heartily;  "I  did 
not  think  of  that;"  and  then  he  followed  her  up  the 
garden  into  the  house.  Dolores  was  lying  crouched  up 
in  a  corner  of  the  sofa  when  he  entered ;  her  eyes  were 
closed.  She  did  not  even  move  when  he  came  up  to  her. 

Marcelline  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  went  away 
sorrowfully  to  the  kitchen,  saying  to  herself, — 

"Ah,  if  only  the  little  one  had  a  big  dot,  this  brave 
milor  might  marry  her,  and  all  the  trouble  be  saved.  But 
for  him  she  must  have  hundreds  of  thousands  of  francs  at 
least.  Ah,  how  one  would  be  well  in  the  world  if  every 
one  were  rich  just  as  he  wanted  it !"  Then  she  brisked 
about,  and  scolded  Jeanneton,  who  did  not  mind  very 
much,  since  she  was  deaf. 

"Who  was  the  fine  gentleman  following  you  up  the 
garden?"  the  old  woman  asked,  presently  turning  from 
the  wooden  dresser  where  she  was  peeling  an  onion,  and 
looking  curiously  at  Marcelline. 

For  a  moment  the  latter  was  tempted  to  wish  that  poor 
Jeanneton  was  blind  as  well  as  deaf. 


100  DOLORES. 

"Fine  gentleman,  indeed  1"  she  answered  scornfully, 
clattering  the  plates  together.  "Since  when  have  you 
had  such  an  eye  for  a  fine  man?" 

"II  6tait  beau  cependant,  ce  monsieur,"  said  Jeanneton, 
sagaciously. 

"Well,  then,  it  was  the  English  curb's  brother,  come 
to  give  a  little  spiritual  advice  to  Mademoiselle." 

"He  is  not  like  the  cur6  I  have  seen,  then,"  returned 
Jeanneton,  —  "a  poor  little,  pale,  meagre  man.  And 
the  English  priests  are  allowed  to  marry;  it  cannot  be 
well,  then,  for  them  to  come  and  give  spiritual  advice  to 
pretty  little  ones  like  our  demoiselle." 

"  Bah  !"  said  Marcelline  defiantly,  "  you  know  nothing 
about  it." 

"Ah,  ah!"  retorted  Jeanneton,  with  a  grin  that  showed 
a  painful  deficiency  of  front  teeth,  "handsome  young 
men  and  girls  are  much  the  same  everywhere,  English  or 
French.  And  the  English  are  a  fine  race.  I  always  liked 
a  big  man  myself." 

"Pouf !"  snorted  Marcelline,  contemptuously. 

"  Ah  !  I  wasn't  always  like  what  I  am  now,  I  can  tell 
you,"  said  old  Jeanneton,  piqued;  "once  there  wasn't 
a  grisette  in  all  the  Quartier  Latin  with  brighter  eyes  or 
a  neater  ankle." 

"Bah!"  sneered  Marcelline,  "all  old  women  have 
been  pretty  in  their  youth,  if  one  believed  them." 

"You  may  believe  or  not,  it  is  nothing  to  me,"  re- 
torted Jeanneton,  fiercely.  "  You  think  because  you  are 
fat,  and  have  a  double  chin,  that  a  man  would  have  no 
eyes  for  a  small  slight  figure." 

Marcelline  gave  a  little  short  laugh. 

"Ah,  mapauvre  fille,  we  need  not  trouble  ourselves  to 
quarrel  about  what  we  have  been,  since  I  don't  suppose 
any  man  would  care  much  about  either  of  us  now."  And 


BON  SECOURS.  Ioi 

with  that  practical  remark,  the  worthy  soul  betook  her- 
self into  the  garden  to  gather  herbs. 

Dolores  lay  upon  the  sofa,  looking  so  white  and  still, 
saying  never  a  word  in  answer  to  Guy's  little  kind  em- 
barrassed sentences.  Now  and  then  she  heaved  a  sigh 
that  seemed  to  come  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart.  It 
was  infectious — he  answered  it  by  another.  After  half  an 
hour  of  this  sort  of  thing,  he  feels  he  can't  stand  it  any 
longer.  "If  it  weren't  for  that  other  one,"  he  thinks 
ruefully,  "  hang  me  if  I  wouldn't  send  for  the  parson  and 
marry  her  at  once.  I  believe  she'll  die,  and  then  I  shall 
have  been  her  murderer."  He  gets  up  abruptly,  and  goes 
towards  the  door. 

"  Don't  leave  me — oh,  don't  leave  me  !"  she  gasps. 

"  No,  no,  dear,  I  am  coming  back,"  and  he  closes  the 
door  softly  and  goes  out  to  Marcelline,  who  is  on  her 
knees  in  the  kitchen  garden  plucking  herbs. 

"  This  is  the  very  devil,"  he  says,  addressing  her  in  his 
own  vernacular,  quite  oblivious  in  his  perplexity  that  she 
doesn't  understand  him.  Guy,  being  unable  to  translate 
his  sentence,  pauses  for  a  moment. 

"Pardon,  monsieur?"  responds  Marcelline,  picking 
herself  up  with  some  difficulty.  "Is  she  getting  reason- 
able?" Marcelline  asks,  pointing  over  her  shoulder  to  the 
windows  of  the  drawing-room. 

Guy  shakes  his  head. 

"We  can't  go  on  like  this,"  he  says;  "we  must  do 
something  to  distract  her  mind." 

"Mais,  mon  Dieu,  comment?"  inquires  Marcelline, 
w!th  a  gesture  expressive  of  profound  despair. 

"I've  promised  to  spend  to-morrow  here,"  pursues 
Guy;  "but  it  is  too  dreadful  to  think  of  in  this  state  of 
things.  Look  here,  Marcelline,"  as  an  idea  strikes  him, 
"couldn't  I  have  a  carriage  and  take  her  out  for  the  day?" 

9* 


loa  DOLORES. 

"Impossible." 

"  Not  impossible  if  you  went  too.  You  told  me  once 
her  mother  never  speaks  to  any  one  here,  and  as  for  other 
people,  you're  clever  enough  to  make  it  all  right." 

tfVoyons/"  reflects  Marcelline,  "  to-morrow  is  Sunday, 
every  one  is  abroad." 

"  Every  one  but  the  English  parson,  who  you  say  is  the 
only  person  Mrs.  Power  ever  speaks  to.  Now,  if  I  were 
to  have  a  carriage  and  take  you  both  a  little  excursion, 
say  to  Bon  Secours,  it  might  distract  her  thoughts  and  do 
her  good ;  and  I  tell  you  frankly,  I  can't  come  up  here 
with  the  prospect  of  another  such  day  as  to-day." 

Marcelline  ruminates.  "  Madame  returns  on  Thursday 
— Thursday,  and  to-day  is  Saturday.  Something  must  be 
done  with  the  child,  or  her  white  face  will  tell  everything. 
One  must  risk  a  little,  and  if  the  neighbors  are  inquisitive 
— well,  I  shall  satisfy  them,"  she  said,  with  a  sagacious 
and  self-approving  nod. 

So  it  is  arranged,  and  Guy  goes  back,  a  shade  more 
cheerful,  to  the  little  drawing-room. 

"Come,  dear,  cheer  up,"  he  says,  taking  Dolores's 
hand.  "  Marcelline  and  I  have  been  concocting  a  little 
plan  for  to-morrow." 

The  wet  gray  eyes  look  sadly  at  him,  but  she  is  silent. 

"Well,  have  you  none  of  the  curiosity  of  your  sex?" 
he  adds,  with  an  attempt  at  gayety. 

A  little  grievous  shake  of  the  head  answers  him. 

"  Well,  then,  I  suppose  I  must  tell  you.  You,  and  I, 
and  Marcelline  are  going  to  have  a  carriage  and  drive  to 
Bon  Secours — we  will  dine  and  spend  the  day  there. 
Come,  now,  won't  that  be  a  pleasant  change?" 

A  little  gleam  comes  into  the  pale  face. 

"Yes,"  says  the  poor  broken  voice. 

He  sits  a  little  time  longer  with  her,  and  she  brightens 


BON  SECOURS. 


I03 


up  at  last.  It  is  such  a  great  thing  for  a  child,  or  indeed 
for  any  of  us,  to  have  something  to  look  forward  to. 

And  by  the  next  morning,  when  he  comes  to  fetch  her 
and  Marcelline,  and  take  them  to  the  carriage  that  waits 
half-way  up  the  hill,  she  is  almost  her  old  self  again. 

She  feels  almost  happy,  sitting  by  Sir  Guy's  side  in  the 
lumbering  fly,  with  its  pair  of  veteran  brown  horses — to 
her  simple  notion  it  seems  quite  grand.  And,  oh,  how 
kind  he  is  to  her,  stopping  at  the  confectioner's  to  buy 
her  all  manner  of  cakes  and  sweetmeats  (though  she  has 
not  much  heart  to  eat  them  now),  and  pointing  out  every- 
thing of  interest  on  the  road  !  Marcelline,  sitting  oppo- 
site in  her  grand  white  cap  and  gloves,  is  the  perfec- 
tion of  a  discreet  duenna.  She  seems  to  see  and  hear 
nothing. 

How  deeply  that  drive  is  engraven  on  the  child's  mind 
long,  long  after !  The  bright  hot  sun  shining  on  the 
water,  the  view  from  the  quay  of  the  bright  green  islands 
down  the  Seine,  the  tall  poplars  and  the  airy  railway- 
bridge.  She  remembers  the  great  rocks  by  the  roadside 
full  of  holes,  in  and  out  of  which  black  birds  kept  flying; 
the  blind,  halt,  and  maimed  who  sat  by  the  wayside  clam- 
oring for  alms,  to  whom  compassionate  Guy  threw  sous 
and  small  silver  coins,  and  sometimes  large  ones ;  the 
good-looking  young  douanier  at  the  Barriere  too,  who 
asked  if  they  had  anything  to  declare ;  and  the  unfinished 
chateau  half-way  up  the  hill,  which  the  builder  had  not 
lived  to  inhabit,  but  which  was  falling  into  ruin,  while 
his  heirs  quarreled  and  went  to  law  over  it. 

Then  they  come  to  Notre  Dame  de  Bon  Secours,  where 
they  alight. 

"While  you  are  saying  your  prayers,"  says  Sir  Guy  to 
Marcelline,  "  we  two  will  walk  round  the  church,  and 
afterwards  you  will  find  us  in  the  cemetery." 


104  DOLORES. 

Marcelline  curtsies,  and  goes  through  the  little  side- 
aisle  to  the  beautiful  altar  of  the  Virgin.  She  says  very 
long  prayers — more  than  three  times  the  wonted  length 
of  her  orisons ;  for  has  not  the  Holy  Virgin  heard  her 
prayers  and  rescued  the  little  innocent  from  the  devour- 
ing jaws  of  the  Evil  One  ?  And  who  knows,  thought  the 
honest  woman,  but  that  the  brave  Englishman  may  com- 
passionate the  little  one,  and  make  a  grand  milady  of 
her,  even  though  she  has  no  dot}  One  had  said  to  her 
that  it  was  not  always  in  England  as  in  France  a  matter 
of  convenance  and  arrangement,  but  that  love  and  beauty 
were  thought  more  of  than  even  rank  and  fortune. 

Meantime  Sir  Guy  and  Dolores  are  walking  round  the 
beautiful  church. 

Beautiful  it  is,  with  its  pillars  in  scrolls  of  rich  red  and 
blue,  green  and  gold — its  many  windows  splendid  with 
all  the  colors  of  the  prism,  like  the  Moorish  palace — its 
arches  covered  with  fair  pictured  angels  bearing  scrolls 
and  garlands — its  altar-piece  of  gold,  standing  in  a  chancel 
paved  with  the  most  exquisite  mosaics. 

"  Come  here,"  says  Guy,  drawing  her  to  the  right  side 
of  the  church,  and  showing  her  the  hundreds  of  white 
marble  tablets  set  in  the  wall,  and  inscribed  with  the 
thanks  and  prayers  of  many  a  mother,  husband,  wife,  for 
the  recovery  of  dear  ones.  "  I  prayed  to  Mary,  and  she 
heard  me."  So  they  all  ran. 

Then,  going  out,  they  descend  to  the  cemetery,  and 
stand  looking  down  upon  the  scene  below.  The  broad 
white  road  curves  and  winds  up  the  green  hill;  the 
yellow  Seine  glitters  in  the  sunlight;  to  the  right  lies 
the  busy  town,  with  its  churches,  its  manufactories,  its 
tall  chimneys.  In  the  midst  of  the  river,  opposite  the 
town,  stands  a  big  island,  covered  with  houses  and  little 
green  gardens  running  down  to  its  banks.  The  keen, 


BON  SECOURS.  Ic>5 

fresh  air  blows  in  their  faces ;  there  is  a  distant  hum  of 
stirring  life  from  below — in  the  silence  they  can  even 
hear  the  dogs  barking  and  the  cocks  crowing ;  and  there 
at  theil  feet  lie  the  tranquil  dead,  sleeping  their  long 
sleep  in  the  narrow  graves  which  loving  hands  have  strewn 
with  flowers  and  immortelles.  Priez pmir  eux  ! 

"Are  you  tired,  my  child?"  asks  the  young  man  ten- 
derly, seeing  a  weary,  wistful  look  come  into  the  girl's 
eyes.  "  What  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"  I  am  thinking  I  should  like  to  die  here  to-day,  while 
I  am  happy,  and  you  are  still  with  me." 

"You  don't  know  what  you  say,  my  little  one,"  he 
answers  her  kindly,  taking  her  hand  in  his — "  you,  with 
all  your  life  before  you;  and  please  God  many  bright 
days  in  store." 

"I  shall  never  be  happy  any  more;"  and  big  tears 
rise  in  the  blue  eyes  and  roll  down  on  the  grass  like 
diamonds. 

Guy  looks  at  her,  feeling  so  grieved,  and  yet  so  utterly 
impotent  to  comfort  her. 

"Oh,  child,"  he  cries  presently,  "if  you  only  knew 
how  you  pain  me  !  I  feel  as  though  you  were  a  poor  little 
weak  defenseless  lamb  that  I  had  maimed  and  tortured." 

Dolores  dries  her  eyes  and  looks  up. 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  she  says  quickly ;  "  it  is  only  my  fool- 
ishness. You  have  been  very,  very  good,  and  I  am  un- 
grateful. See,  here  comes  Marcelline.  Before  she  reaches 
us,  may  I  ask  you  something?" 

"Yes,  dear,  anything." 

"Will  you  come  only  up  to  the  gate  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, and  bid  me  good-by  before  you  go  ?' ' 

"I  will." 

"You  promise?" 

"I  promise." 
E* 


106  DOLORES. 

Then  Marcelline  came  up,  and  they  all  went  and  had 
dinner  together,  and  returned  home  by  another  road. 

Guy  walked  up  and  down  the  quay,  smoking,  until  a 
very  late  hour  that  night.  He  lighted  one  cigar  after 
another,  and  puffed  sometimes  quickly  and  vigorously  at 
it,  and  sometimes  so  gently  and  thoughtfully  you  could 
hardly  see  the  faint  blue  line  curl  from  his  lips.  He 
was  thinking  of  the  strange  things  that  had  befallen  him 
that  week — a  week  that  almost  promised  to  be  the  most 
eventful  one  of  his  life.  He  could  not  forget  Milly,  he 
longed  passionately  to  see  her  again,  and  yet  he  loved  this 
poor,  innocent,  sorrowful  child,  who  clung  to  him  with  a 
strange,  wild  worship.  And  all  that  day  she  had  been 
so  sweet,  so  soft  and  tender,  there  had  been  no  touch  of 
waywardness  in  her.  She  seemed  the  dearest,  most  lovable 
thing  in  the  world.  "  What  some  men  would  give  to 
have  a  dear,  loving  little  creature  like  that  to  pet  and 
fondle  1"  he  said  to  himself;  "  but  somehow  I  feel  differ- 
ently about  these  things.  I'm  not  a  clever  fellow  myself, 
and  a  woman  to  win  and  keep  my  real  love  must  be  some- 
thing I  could  admire  and  be  proud  of;  not  a  woman  full 
of  head-knowledge,  and  ready  to  overpower  you  with  it 
on  every  occasion,  but  a  dear,  soft,  feminine  thing,  full 
of  bright  intelligence  and  ready  wit,  who  would  show  her 
beautiful  soul  in  her  eyes,  and  make  you  feel  all  the  better 
and  nobler  for  her  influence.  I  should  like  to  have  had 
a  little  sister  like  Dolores.  How  fond  I  should  have  been 
of  her !  If  she  had  done  the  most  foolish  things  in  the 
world,  I  should  have  forgiven  her,  rather  than  to  see  the 
tears  in  her  blue  eyes,  or  the  poor  little  mouth  quiver  that 
was  only  made  to  laugh  and  kiss.  It  makes  my  heart 
bleed  when  I  think  of  her  sad  and  sorrowful.  It  reminds 
me  of  the  poor  little  wounded  kitten  I  once  saved  from 
Adrian's  dog.  Will  she  remember  me  long  after  I  am 


BON  SECOURS. 


107 


gone,  I  wonder?  Will  she  go  about  with  a  wan  face  and 
an  aching  heart  ?  My  God  !  if  I  thought  she  would,  my 
poor  little  darling,  I  never  could  be  such  a  brute  as  to 
leave  her." 

And  then  Guy  threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  and 
went  into  the  hotel.  The  next  morning,  faithful  to  his 
promise,  he  went  up  to  the  Barriere  to  bid  Dolores  good- 
by.  There  she  stood,  looki;.g  for  him,  her  face  so  wan 
and  wistful ;  but  when  he  approached,  the  color  flushed 
up  in  her  cheeks,  so  that  he  could  not  see  its  real  expres- 
sion. She  comes  near  to  him,  and  puts  one  trembling 
hand  on  his,  looking  up  in  his  face  with  eyes  dimmed  by 
tears. 

"  Monsieur,  I  must  say  one  little  word  to  you  before 
you  go." 

"Say  on,  dear  child,"  and  he  would  have  kissed  her 
hand,  but  she  draws  it  away  quickly. 

"I  did  not  think,"  she  falters,  her  color  coming  and 
going — "  I  did  not  know — I  would  say  I  did  not  consider 
that  in  going  after  you  to  Paris  I  was  doing  something — 
something  that  was  shameful,  and  would  lose  me  your 
esteem.  Perhaps  I  was  mad,  but  then  only  one  thought 
filled  me — to  see  you  once  more,  to  be  with  you,  and  my 
great  pain  of  losing  you  made  me  forget  all  else." 

She  has  never  seemed  so  dear,  so  lovable  in  Guy's  eyes 
as  at  this  moment,  when  she  stands  before  him  ashamed, 
embarrassed,  uttering  her  piteous  words,  painfully  and 
brokenly.  He  leans  against  the  high  grass  bank  under 
the  elms,  and  draws  her  towards  him,  until  her  head  lies 
on  his  breast.  Then  he  says, — 

"  My  child,  I  never  in  my  life  had  any  but  the  tender- 
est,  kindest  thoughts  of  you.  Your  innocent  love  would 
be  the  dearest  thing  in  all  the  world  to  me,  if  I  only  felt 
I  could  make  it  the  return  it  deserves." 


io8  DOLORES. 

"  I  want  no  return,"  she  answers,  quickly.  "I  only 
want  to  tell  you  what  I  feel.  I  never  seemed  to  see  how 
wrong  and  foolish  I  had  been  until  last  night,  when  I 
lay  awake  all  the  long  hours.  Then  it  came  to  me  all  at 
once  with  a  great  horror,  and  I  blushed  for  shame,  even 
in  the  darkness,  to  think  how  I  must  have  seemed  in  your 
eyes." 

"  You  never  seemed  anything  to  me,  darling,  but  what 
was  dear,  and  good,  and  honest,"  says  Guy,  stooping  and 
kissing  her  tenderly.  "I  shall  never  have  any  thought 
of  you  except  to  blame  myself.  And  remember,  dear,  if 
you  are  in  any  trouble  or  sorrow,  write  to  me  at  once,  and 
wherever  I  am,  whatever  I  may  be  doing,  I  will  come  to 
you." 

Dolores  looks  up  at  him  eagerly. 

"Will  you,"  she  falters — "will  you  write  to  me  just 
once  or  twice  when  you  are  in  England,  before  you  have 
quite  forgotten  me?" 

"I  shall  never  forget  you,  my  child;  but  I  will  send 
you  a  letter  sometimes,  if  you  wish  it." 

"And  some  day,  when  you  are  in  Paris,  in  the  gay 
world,  will  you  remember  poor  Dolores,  and  come  out 
here  to  see  her?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  that  I  will.  And  now  I  must  go ;  there  is 
no  more  time  to  spare." 

The  poor  child  holds  his  hand  quite  tight  for  a  moment, 
as  though  she  cannot  bear  to  let  him  go  ;  then  she  says, 
sobbing, — 

"Adieu,  monsieur — adieu!" 

Guy  feels  as  if  he  should  cry  himself  if  he  stayed  any 
longer.  He  draws  her  close  to  him  and  kisses  her  ten- 
derly, without  speaking  a  word ;  then  he  tears  himself 
away,  and  hurries  down  the  hill  without  once  looking 
back. 


GUY'S   TURN. 


I09 


He  felt  utterly  miserable  during  the  journey  back  to 
Paris.  He  did  not  even  think  of  Milly,  or  that  he  was 
going  to  see  her  ;  it  would  have  seemed  too  cruel  to  in- 
dulge one  pleasant  thought  while  this  poor  child  was 
breaking  her  heart  about  him. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

GUY'S  TURN. 

IT  was  about  one  o'clock  when  Guy  entered  his  rooms 
in  Paris.  Some  letters  were  lying  on  the  table — a  note 
from  Adrian  on  the  top  : 

"  MY  DEAR  GUY, — In  case  you  return  before  I  get  back, 
I  leave  a  line  to  tell  you  that  we're  all  off  to  Versailles  for 
the  day — we  being  the  Vivians,  Mrs.  Scarlett,  and  myself. 
What  an  awfully  jolly  little  woman  she  is  !  I'm  tremen- 
dously obliged  to  you  for  putting  me  in  the  way  of  such 
a  good  thing,  and  shall  be  more  so  still  if  it  comes  to 
anything.  I  shouldn't  wonder.  I  like  her  amazingly, 
and  she  seems  to  reciprocate.  I've  made  the  most  of 
my  time ;  we've  been  together  the  whole  of  the  last  three 
days.  By  the  way,  I've  smoked  all  your  cigars,  but  I 
have  left  an  address  with  Stevens,  where  Fox  tells  me  you 
can  get  rattling  good  ones,  but  be  sure  to  mention  his 
name.  We  are  going — a  nice  little  parti  carre — to  the 
theatre  to-night.  Crichton  kindly  takes  Mrs.  Vivian  off, 
and  I  look  after  the  charming  widow.  Old  Vivian  tells 
me  she  has  ^£3000  a  year,  which  she  doesn't  lose — too  good 


HO  DOLORES. 

a  chance  to  let  slip,  though  I  hate  the  thought  of  marrying 
like  the  devil. 

"  Your  affectionate  brother, 

"ADRIAN  CHARTERIS. 

"P.S. — Vivian  wants  you  to  dine  and  go  to  Mabille 
with  him.  Mrs.  Scarlett,  it  seems,  saw  you  sitting  with 
your  mysterious  little  visitor  drinking  coffee  on  Friday 
night." 

As  Guy  read  the  letter,  the  color  gradually  flushed 
into  his  face — a  sickening  sensation  came  over  him — the 
room  seemed  to  reel.  Stevens  came  in  hurriedly  at  this 
moment. 

"Beg  pardon,  Sir  Guy;  I  didn't  expect  you  quite  so 
soon.  Shall  I  order  some  lunch,  Sir  Guy?  The  captain's 
gone  out.  He  left  a  letter,  and  I  was  to  be  sure  and  give 
you  this  card  with  the  cigar-merchant's  address." 

"All  right,"  said  Guy,  collecting  himself  with  an 
effort.  "I  don't  want  anything  at  present;  come  back 
in  an  hour." 

Stevens  disappeared,  and  Guy  sat  down  and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  He  saw  nothing,  felt  nothing,  at  first ; 
it  was  as  if  he  had  been  stunned  by  a  heavy  blow. 

"Poor  little  girl !"  he  said  presently,  half  aloud.  "It 
is  awfully  hard  to  care  for  some  one  who  doesn't  care  for 
you." 

He  was  thinking  of  Dolores.     Then  he  roused  himself. 

"What  a  fool  I  am  to  be  so  upset!"  he  thought, 
angrily;  "  I  dare  say  it's  only  his  swagger.  He's  a  good- 
looking  fellow  enough,  but  what  the  deuce  should  she  see 
in  him  to  marry?  He  does  well  enough  to  swell  the  train 
of  her  lovers,  but,  pshaw !  marrying's  a  very  different 
affair.  I  wish  to  heaven  she  lost  every  penny  of  her 
accursed  money  if  she  marries  again  !  It's  an  awful 


GUY'S   TURN.  m 

temptation  to  fellows  who  are  poor.  Anyhow,  I'll  stop 
and  see  for  myself  how  matters  are." 

Suffering  makes  us  compassionate,  and  during  that 
dreary  afternoon  Guy  sent  many  a  thought  to  Rouen,  to 
the  poor  little  girl  whose  wet  blue  eyes  and  trembling 
lips  were  so  deeply  printed  on  his  mind.  He  went  to  the 
jeweler's  and  bought  the  locket  set  with  pearls  that  had 
taken  his  fancy  some  days  before,  fastened  a  gold  chain 
to  it,  and  sent  it  off  with  the  kindest  letter  he  could 
frame.  He  never  got  the  blurred,  tear-stained,  touching 
little  letter  that  thanked  him  for  it.  The  child  could  not 
rightly  remember  the  name  of  his  hotel,  but  she  sent  it 
in  hope  that  he  would  get  it.  There  could  not  be  two 
Sir  Guy  Wentworths  in  Paris. 

When  Guy  returned  to  his  room,  Stevens  met  him. 

"  Mr.  Vivian's  valet  was  here  not  ten  minutes  ago,  Sir 
Guy,  asking  for  you.  I  said  you  were  out.  Mr.  Vivian 
wanted  to  see  you  in  his  room." 

Guy  turned  back,  and  went  to  the  Vivians'  room.  The 
door  was  ajar,  and  he  pushed  it  open.  Charles  Vivian 
was  not  there,  but  Milly  Scarlett  was,  and  alone. 

"Come  in,  Sir  Guy,"  she  says,  gayly.  "I  am  com- 
missioned to  keep  you  until  Mr.  Vivian  returns;  he  won't 
be  more  than  ten  minutes." 

The  blood  seems  to  rush  from  Guy's  heart ;  he  hesitates, 
stammers  something,  and  then  walks  straight  up  to  Milly 
where  she  stands.  He  will  never  know  how  he  came  to 
act  as  he  did  ;  the  gravest  actions  of  a  man's  life  are  often 
unpremeditated. 

"  Don't  think  me  quite  mad,"  he  says,  in  a  voice  thick 
and  hoarse  with  feeling, — for  he  does  feel  intensely  at  this 
moment ;  feels  at  sight  of  this  woman  as  if  life  or  death 
hung  upon  her  fiat.  "You  know  nothing  of  me,  you 
have  seen  nothing  of  me;  I  am  not  in  any  way  worthy 


112  DOLORES. 

of  you,  but  I  love  you  so  madly  that  I  cannot  help  speak- 
ing of  it !" 

Great  beads  stand  on  his  forehead  from  emotion. 
Milly,  who  has  had  many  love-declarations,  has  never  seen 
a  man  more  in  earnest  than  this.  She  is  half  frightened, 
and  puts  up  her  hand  deprecatingly. 

"If  you  refuse  me  ten  thousand  times  over,"  he  says 
passionately,  before  she  has  time  to  speak,  "  I  must  tell 
you  how  I  love  you — I  must  ask  you  to  try  to  care  for  me 
a  little." 

"  Hush  !"  she  says,  the  scarlet  blood  rising  to  her  tem- 
ples, while  her  eyes  look  away  from  him.  "  Don't  you 
know?" 

"  Know  what  ?"  harshly. 

"That  I  am  going  to  marry  your  brother." 

He  stands  staring  at  her  as  if  he  had  turned  into  stone. 
She  feels  dreadfully  sorry  for  him.  She  would  have  given 
anything  to  avoid  this  scene.  People  have  called  her 
vain  and  heartless,  but  she  is  not  vain  and  heartless 
enough  to  see  a  man  suffer  for  loving  her,  and  be  glad. 

Milly  puts  her  hand — that  delicate  white  hand  he  longs 
for  so  keenly — into  his.  He  shivers  at  the  touch. 

"I  never  dreamed  of  this,"  she  says,  ever  so  sweetly, 
"  How  could  I,  after  I  saw  you  on  Friday  night  with " 

She  stops,  confused. 

Guy  laughs  a  bitter,  strident  laugh. 

"How  indeed?"  he  says,  harshly,  wondering  to  him- 
self why  Fate  should  have  played  these  pranks  with  him. 

He  feels  the  small  hand  in  his;  it  burns  him.  He 
looks  at  Milly  with  strange  eyes.  A  momentary  madness 
seizes  him.  He  takes  her  in  his  arms  as  in  a  vice,  and, 
holding  her,  kisses  her  once,  twice,  thrice. 

Then  she  is  alone,  stupefied,  frightened,  half  paralyzed. 
A  moment,  and  Charles  Vivian  comes  in. 


GUY'S   TURN.  H3 

"  Was  that  Guy  Wentworth  I  saw  rushing  out  of  this 
like  a  lunatic?"  he  asks. 

"Yes;  he  was  afraid  of  being  late  for  dinner,"  she 
answers  quietly,  recovering  herself  in  a  second. 

"  Milly,  how  white  you  look  !  You  are  shaking  like  a 
leaf,  I  believe." 

"I!  My  dear  Charles,  you  have  been  smoking  too 
much ;  you  can't  see  distinctly.  Feel,"  she  says,  put- 
ting her  hand  on  his — "that  is  perfectly  steady,  is  it 
not?" 

"Perfectly.     I  suppose  I  was  mistaken." 

When  Mr.  Vivian  inquires  for  Guy,  he  is  nowhere  to 
be  found.  The  consequence  is,  the  parti  carrt  is  spoiled, 
for  he  does  not  see  the  fun  of  dining  alone,  and  is  utterly 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he  is  not  wanted. 

"Rum  thing  Guy  going  off  like  that !"  he  remarks  to 
his  wife  later  when  they  are  alone. 

"I  don't  see  anything  particularly  rum  in  it,"  she 
answers,  pettishly ;  for  has  he  not  spoiled  their  pleasant 
little  projected  party  of  four,  and  made  himself  further 
obnoxious  by  his  unpleasant  remarks  ? 

"Of  course  not,"  he  remarks,  with  sarcasm.  "If  the 
house  tumbled  into  the  street,  or  anything  equally  unlikely 
took  place,  it  wouldn't  seem  strange  to  you  if  I  happened 
to  think  it  was." 

"  I  don't  want  to  argue,"  she  says,  yawning.  "  Thank 
heaven  it  isn't  necessary  for  my  liver  to  be  getting  up  a 
quarrel  about  nothing  every  half-hour  in  the  day." 

"  I  suppose  it's  your  charming  placidity  that  puts  so 
much  superfluous  flesh  on  you?"  retorts  Charles  Vivian, 
agreeably,  knowing  her  embonpoint  is  a  very  sore  subject 
with  his  wife.  For  a  wonder  she  makes  no  reply. 

"I  believe,"  he  says  presently,  resuming  the  thread  of 
his  discourse — "I  believe  Guy  proposed  to  Milly  this 
H  10* 


H4  DOLORES. 

afternoon,  and  I  believe  she'll  marry  that  confounded 
young  fool  Adrian." 

Mrs.  Vivian  laughs  contemptuously. 

"Your  penetration  is  wonderful.  Guy  want  to  marry 
her,  when  he  only  saw  her  for  a  few  hours,  and  then  went 
straight  off  with  another  woman,  or  girl,  or  whatever  she 
was!" 

"  Deuce  take  me  if  I  understand  about  the  girl !"  says 
Charles  Vivian,  reflectively.  "A  little  thing  with  a  baby 
face,  Adrian  says,  not  more  than  sixteen.  Milly  says  so, 
doesn't  she  ?  And  then  Guy  seeming  so  queer  over  it. 
and  not  telling  me  a  word  about  her.  He  always  used  to 
confide  in  me  about  his  affairs.  However,  just  as  I  was 
coming  along  the  passage,  I  saw  him  rushing  out  of  the 
room  like  a  maniac.  I  called  to  him,  but  he  didn't  stop, 
and  when  I  went  in  Milly  was  as  white  as  a  sheet." 

"  Nonsense  !  you  must  have  fancied  it ;  besides,  he 
did  not  seem  so  particularly  struck  with  her." 

"  Didn't  he  ?  My  dear  Gertrude,  what  a  shocking  bad 
memory  you  have !  Don't  you  remember  the  night  we 
dined  at  the  Cafe  Anglais,  when  you  put  on  a  new  gown, 
and  displayed  more  than  usual  of  your  charms  for  his 
benefit,  it  was  all  lost  upon  him?  By  Jove!"  and  Mr. 
Vivian  laughs  pleasantly,  "he  never  saw  any  one  or 
anything  but  Milly." 

"Really?"  says  his  wife,  reddening  with  anger.  "I 
almost  wonder  you  have  not  fallen  a  victim,  since  you 
seem  to  think  Mrs.  Scarlett  such  a  siren." 

"She's  tremendously  nice  and  clever;  but  love  will 
never  make  a  victim  of  me  again,"  he  replies,  with  a 
wry  face.  "  You  may  congratulate  yourself  upon  having 
had  one  captive  all  to  yourself,  to  torture  and  do  with 
what  seemeth  good  in  your  eyes." 

"One,"  said  his  wife,  with  infinite  contempt,  "and 


GUY'S   TURN.  115 

what  a  one  !  I  might  have  married  half  a  dozen  men,  as 
you  know  well  enough,  and  none  of  them  could  have 
made  me  half  as  miserable  as  you  have  done !" 

"Quite  true,  I  dare  say;  but  you  were  practical,  you 
know.  I  was  by  far  the  best  match  of  the  lot." 

"Of  course  you  were,"  she  says,  bitterly,  "or  I 
shouldn't  have  married  you.  What  on  earth  was  there  in 
you  to  please  any  woman  ? — plain,  awkward,  ill-tempered, 
badly  dressed  as  you  were,  except  your  miserable  money  ! 
I  was  a  pretty  girl,  I  was  admired,  and  you  bought  me." 

Charles  Vivian  sticks  his  glass  into  his  eye,  and  con- 
templates his  wife  lazily  for  a  few  moments. 

"Hm!"  he  says  thoughtfully.  "I  suppose  you  were 
once  ;  but,  by  Jove,  it  requires  the  eye  of  faith  to  realize 
it  now!" 

"I  detested  and  despised  you  then,"  she  flames  out 
passionately;  "you  know  I  refused  you  three  times." 

"  I  can  only  regret  that  you  ever  exerted  your  woman's 
privilege  of  changing  your  mind  in  my  favor,"  he  an- 
swers politely. 

"  I  hate  you  !"  she  cries,  bursting  into  tears. 

"  Mutual,  I  assure  you.  Don't  spoil  those  lovely  eyes. 
Good-night.  Dormez  Men,  mon  ange,"  and  he  retires  to 
his  dressing-room. 

How  they  hate  each  other  at  that  moment !  What  hate 
is  so  black  or  bitter  as  the  hatred  of  man  and  wife  ? — 
only  fortunately  in  many  cases  it  comes  on  in  paroxysmSj 
and  is  too  violent  to  last. 


Il6  DOLORES. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

LONDON   IN   SPRING. 

ONE  of  those  delicious  spring  days  just  after  Easter, 
when  the  season  has  scarcely  begun,  but  nearly  every  one 
is  in  town,  and  London  is  charming. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  strangers  think  our  dear  old 
city  a  dull,  unsociable,  dingy  place,  especially  when  they 
have  just  come  from  Paris — the  gay,  the  bright,  the  beau- 
tiful ;  but,  I  believe,  to  the  genuine  Londoner,  it  is  the 
real  El  Dorado  in  the  first  blush  of  the  dawning  season, 
when  he  comes  back  to  it  from  the  country,  or  abroad, 
and  meets  everybody  he  knows  between  the  top  of  Bond 
Street  and  the  middle  of  Pall  Mall.  They  look  so  cheery 
and  so  glad  to  see  you  too,  and  the  pretty  women  of  your 
acquaintance  are  so  much  more  pressing  in  their  invita- 
tions than  later  on,  when  they  are  bored  to  death  with  the 
business  of  pleasure,  and  exhausted  after  so  much  hard 
labor  in  entertaining  and  being  entertained.  "Now,  you 
must  come  to  tea,  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you ;  and  have 
you  seen  So-and-So,  and  So-and-So,  and  did  you  hear 

? — but  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  when  you  come. 

Now,  don't  forget — I  shall  expect  you.  No.  — ,  the  old 
address.  Good-by."  And  Madame  rolls  away  in  her 
carriage,  which  she  has  actually  stopped  to  speak  to  you ; 
and  you  pursue  your  way  smiling,  very  well  pleased  with 
yourself  and  your  neighbor,  thinking  what  an  awfully 
charming  woman  this  is,  what  an  awfully  jolly  place  Lon- 
don is,  and  what  an  awful  mistake  it  is  to  go  abroad  to  be 
amused,  when  everything  is  so  much  nicer  and  pleasanter 


LONDON  IN  SPRING. 


117 


in  England.  And  the  little  dinners  people  give  are  so 
much  jollier,  because  they  are  not  duty  dinners,  but 
friendly  and  sociable;  and  you  are  asked  to  meet  the 
people  you  like,  and  not  dreadful,  heavy  old  fogies,  who 
have  to  be  entertained  because  they  have  given  a  big  feed 
to  your  host  and  hostess,  or  are  going  to  do  so  some  time 
during  the  season.  Your  club  is  just  pleasant  j  there  are 
enough  fellows  to  make  it  cheery,  without  the  horrid  mob 
that  fills  it  between  the  popular  race-meetings.  The  trees 
are  throwing  out  tender  green  shoots:  you've  put  on  your 
blue  frock-coat,  with  a  jardiniere  in  the  button-hole,  the 
first  time  this  season  ;  you've  had  your  hair  cut,  and,  on 
the  whole,  rather  fancy  yourself,  as  you  stroll  down  St. 
James's  Street,  arm  in  arm  with  another  fellow,  laughing 
with  unfeigned  enjoyment  at  the  piquant  little  stories 
about  everybody  that  you  haven't  heard  because  you've 
been  away  so  long.  And,  after  all,  you're  very  well 
pleased  with  your  own  countrywomen,  because  they  look 
fresh  and  lady-like,  though  they  don't  dress  like  French- 
women or  Americans,  and  though,  with  a  few  exceptions, 
their  boots  froissent  you  inexpressibly. 

In  this  pleasant  position  George  Thornton  finds  him- 
self on  the  afternoon  of  which  I  am  about  to  write.  He 
has  been  wintering  abroad  with  his  mother  and  sister,  and, 
in  spite  of  the  awful  blow  he  thinks  he  got  in  being  thrown 
over  by  Mrs.  Scarlett,  he  manages  to  sustain  life  with 
equanimity,  and  to  feel  pretty  jolly,  though  he  gives  vent 
to  his  spleen  by  the  assumption  of  a  certain  cynicism  of 
manner,  and  by  railing  at  women,  after  the  manner  of  a 
disappointed  boy,  whenever  he  can  conveniently  bring  up 
the  subject.  He  has  plenty  of  opportunity ;  he  and  his 
compeers  divide  their  conversation  very  equally  between 
horses  and  women. 

As  they  turn  the  corner  by  Sams's  his  friend  suddenly 


IX8  DOLORES. 

disengages  his  arm,  and  in  a  moment  is  leaning  half-way 
into  the  window  of  a  brougham,  into  which  he  almost 
immediately  jumps,  and  is  conveyed  away  from  young 
Thornton's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  hang  the  women  1"  he  mutters,  with  a  very  glum 
visage.  "Just  in  the  middle  of  that  story,  too!  And 
now,  if  I  see  Fitz,  I  shan't  know  whether  to  mention  her 
to  him  or  not.  By  Jove  1  Brooke,  is  that  you,  old  fellow?" 

This  to  another  man,  who  had  just  come  up,  with  a 
hearty  shake  of  the  hand. 

"  Why,  Georgy,  where  have  you  been  hiding  all  the 
winter?"  says  the  new-comer,  in  a  cheery  voice,  pleasant 
to  hear  (by  the  way,  what  a  gift  a  good  voice  is !  ). 
"  Nobody  seemed  to  know  what  had  become  of  you,  and 
I  began  to  think  the  Jews  had  taken  possession  of  your 
valuable  person." 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that  yet,  old  fellow.  I  think  they'd 
have  found  me  too  expensive  keep.  I'm  not  at  all  sure 
my  amusing  conversation  would  have  compensated  them, 
and  that's  all  they'd  have  got  out  of  me.  I've  been 
wintering  abroad  for  my  health." 

"The  deuce  you  have  !  Well,  you  look  pretty  fit,  sr 
I  suppose  your  good  intentions  were  crowned  with  suc- 
cess. I  wrote  you  a  line  in  December,  and  asked  you  to 
come  down  to  the  Court.  I  had  some  rattling  good 
mounts  for  you,  and  the  shooting  was  extra  good  this 
year;  but  I  concluded  you  were  off  somewhere,  as  I  didn't 
hear  from  you." 

"Thanks,  old  fellow!  I  needn't  tell  you  I  never  got 
the  letter.  I  told  that  fool  at  the  club  to  forward  my 
private  letters,  but  they  always  send  the  wrong  ones.  I 
got  about  forty  circulars,  and  had  to  pay  I  don't  know 
what  for  them ;  but  they  get  the  infernal  thing  up  in  such 
a  way  now,  I  defy  you  to  tell  by  the  outside  what  they 


LONDON  IN  SPRING. 


119 


are.  And  I'm  so  awfully  afraid  of  looking  in  the  ghastly 
pile  of  bills  I  know  awaits  me,  that  I  haven't  opened  a 
single  envelope  yet." 

"  But  did  you  really  go  abroad  because  you  were  seedy, 
Georgy?" 

"  Yes,  'pon  my  word.  I  got  a  nasty  kind  of  swimming 
in  my  head,  nerves  bad,  always  felt  jumpy,  you  know,  so 
I  went  and  saw  some  fellow  about  it,  and  he  sent  me  off 
to  Nice,  and  advised  me  to  keep  pretty  quiet.  The  doctor 
there  is  a  very  shrewd  fellow ;  he  asked  me  a  heap  of 
questions,  knocked  off  the  brandies  and  sodas,  got  me  to 
bed  in  decent  time,  and  in  a  couple  of  months  I  was  as  fit 
as  ever  I  was  in  my  life." 

"That's  it!"  says  Colonel  Brooke.  "The  going 
abroad's  all  humbug;  if  you'd  followed  out  that  prescrip- 
tion and  stopped  at  home,  the  result  would  have  been 
just  the  same." 

"Of  course  it  would,  my  dear  boy,  but  I  should  like 
just  to  see  anybody  doing  it  in  London,  or  anywhere  else, 
as  long  as  he  stopped  in  England.  I  say,  by  Jove,  Brooke, 
why  do  Englishwomen  wear  such  awfully  bad  boots?" 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I  never  thought  about  it.  I 
suppose  they  don't  go  to  the  right  people.  But  tell  me 
all  about  Nice — what  sort  of  a  place  is  it?" 

"Oh,  very  jolly  for  a  little  while.  Not  much  to  do  if 
you  don't  gamble  and  dance,  and  I  didn't  do  the  former, 
because,  thank  heaven,  it  doesn't  amuse  me,  and  I 
couldn't  do  much  in  the  dancing  line,  on  account  of  my 
head." 

"  I  wonder  the  green  cloth  never  tempted  you,  Georgy. 
You're  not  altogether  so  averse  to  the  excitement  of 
betting,  unless  you're  very  much  changed  from  what  you 
were  when  I  saw  you." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  losing  my  money  in  a  gentleman- 


110  DOLORES. 

like  way  on  a  horse,  but  I  hate  the  other  thing.  Always 
did.  I  don't  know  why.  Of  course  it's  all  right  for 
those  who  like  it,  only  it  doesn't  amuse  me.  The  worst 
part  of  it  is,  seeing  the  women.  By  Jove,  when  I  was 
there,  there  were  two  or  three  awfully  pretty,  well-bred 
women ;  and  to  see  their  keen,  eager  faces  and  their 
quivering  lips,  to  see  them  sitting  side  by  side  with  the 
most  degraded  of  both  sexes,  made  my  blood  boil.  I 
think  if  ever  I  saw  a  woman  play  I  cared  about,  I  should 
strangle  her." 

"I  never  heard  you  so  down  upon  anything  before, 
Georgy!"  laughed  his  friend. 

"Well,  you  know,  it  seems  such  profanation.  There's 
Monaco,  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  on  God's  earth;  you 
stand  on  the  terrace  outside  the  Casino,  and  look  down 
at  the  sea  as  blue  as — blue  as — blue  as ' ' 

"A  sapphire,"  suggests  Colonel  Brooke. 

"Yes,  blue  as  a  sapphire,  without  any  humbug.  And 
the  mountains  all  round  are  red  and  purple  in  the  sun, 
just  for  all  the  world  as  the  Scotch  heather  looks;  and 
it's  the  most  calm,  peaceful  gem  of  a  bit  of  scenery  you 
can  imagine.  And  then  to  turn  from  that,  and  go  back 
into  the  gaudily-painted  rooms,  and  see  all  the  fevered, 
restless  faces,  and  breathe  the  stifling  odor — faugh!  it's 
like  going  from  heaven  to  hell !" 

"By  Jove!  what  a  tirade!  Well,  as  you  are  getting  so 
moral,  as  you  wouldn't  play,  and  you  couldn't  dance, 
how  on  earth  did  you  get  through  the  time?  Any  pretty 
women  there?" 

"Oh,  confound  women!  I'm  sick  of  them."  But  his 
face  belies  him,  for  at  this  moment  he  flushes  scarlet  as 
the  neatest  of  Victorias  pulls  up  in  front  of  him,  and 
Milly  Scarlett's  eyes  beckon  him. 

"The  two  very  people  I  wanted  to  see,"  she  says, 


LONDON  IN  SPRING.  X2I 

shaking  hands  with  them  both.  "We  were  just  speaking 
of  Colonel  Brooke:  weren't  we,  Laura?"  turning  to  the 
very  pretty  golden-haired  woman  beside  her. 

"Yes — how  d'ye  do,  Colonel  Brooke — how  d'ye  do, 
Georgy?" — Everybody  calls  him  Georgy. 

"We  must  have  a  chat  with  you  both,  and  we  can't 
talk  here;  but  we  are  going  straight  home — won't  you 
both  come  and  have  tea  with  us?" 

The  two  men  acquiesce.  Mr.  Thornton  feels  as  if  he 
ought  to  stand  on  his  dignity,  and  never  go  near  Milly 
again;  but  somehow,  when  her  eyes  are  upon  him,  he 
seems  bewitched,  and  gives  a  glad  assent,  instead  of  the 
frigid  refusal  he  had  contemplated. 

"Somebody  told  me  Mrs.  Scarlett  was  going  to  marry 
Charteris,"  says  Colonel  Brooke,  as  the  Victoria  drives 
off.  "I  should  hardly  think  it  can  be  true." 

"They  say  so,"  answers  young  Thornton  stiffly.  "I 
don't  know  what  she  sees  in  him — a  fellow  with  no  brains, 
and  a  head  like  a  barber's  block.  What  a  confounded 
clatter  there  is  in  the  street !"  he  continues  irritably,  for 
he  does  not  relish  the  subject.  "Why  on  earth  can't 
they  make  the  roads  here  as  they  are  in  Paris  ?  I  always 
feel  the  most  utter  contempt  for  London  when  I  come 
back  from  there." 

"  I  don't  think  London  is  such  a  bad  place  after  all," 
laughs  the  other.  "I  know  I'm  always  precious  glad  to 
get  back  to  it  after  I've  been  away  a  couple  of  months." 

"  Oh,  London's  well  enough,  as  far  as  the  people  go, 
and  one's  clubs,  and  comfort,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  but 
it's  a  very  seedy  place  to  look  at.  I  don't  wonder  at 
foreigners  hating  it  after  their  bright,  cheery  towns.  Why, 
just  look  at  our  narrow  streets,  with  the  dwarfed  houses 
all  at  sixes  and  sevens,  built  in  every  various  style  of  in- 
elegant architecture  known  !" 


122  DOLORES. 

"  My  good  fellow,  that's  the  beauty  of  our  British  inde- 
pendence. An  Englishman's  house  is  his  castle." 

"It  may  be,"  retorts  the  other,  "but  I  wish  to  good- 
ness he  wasn't  allowed  to  offend  every  one's  eyes  with  it. 
As  for  Trafalgar  Square,  it's  a  downright  blot  on  the  nation. 
Ton  my  soul,  I  don't  feel  a  bit  more  ashamed  of  Leicester 
Square.  We  want  Haussmann  here  for  twelve  months : 
he'd  make  a  clean  sweep  of  those  beastly  little  houses  in 
the  Strand,  and  open  a  view  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament 
and  St.  James's  Park." 

For  when  Georgy  Thornton  spoke  it  was  the  day  of  the 
Empire,  when  Paris  was  the  Queen  of  Cities,  when  there 
were  gala  days  and  feasts  and  shows,  when  her  face  was 
fair,  beloved,  and  when  the  ashes  of  shame  and  the  sack- 
cloth of  misery  were  not  wrapped  round  her  as  a  garment 
— but,  instead,  laughter  and  power  and  wanton  mirth. 

Five  minutes  later  the  two  men  are  in  the  most  grace- 
ful, most  luxurious  little  drawing-room  in  all  London. 
Milly  and  Mrs.  Craven  have  arrived  before  them. 

A  delicate  service  of  transparent  china  stands  on  the 
low  table,  with  one  or  two  bottles  of  quaint  shape,  whose 
contents  hint  of  masculine  proclivities;  a  little  copper 
kettle  sings  merrily  on  a  wood  fire,  for  the  afternoon  air 
is  chilly  j  and  a  collie,  the  handsomest  of  his  race,  lies 
watchful  upon  the  fur  rug. 

Mrs.  Craven  has  an  infinite  personal  advantage  over 
Milly  Scarlett.  She  is  indisputably  a  beauty, — golden- 
haired  by  the  real  rare  gift  of  nature,  blue-eyed,  and  with 
the  figure  of  Dannecker's  Ariadne.  At  first  you  might 
have  said  one  had  no  chance  against  the  other,  but  after 
you  had  been  for  some  time  in  company  with  the  two  you 
might  feel  inclined  to  turn  from  the  fairer  face,  with  its 
serene  unchanging  smile,  to  that  other,  all  lights  and 
shades,  varying  with  every  new  emotion — gay,  grave,  pa- 


A  DISCUSSION. 


123 


thetic,  scornful,  tender.  To  the  first,  ninety-nine  men 
out  of  a  hundred  would  have  given  the  apple,  the  hun- 
dredth would  have  kept  it  for  Milly ;  and  perchance  when 
the  ninety  and  nine  had  gone  their  way  and  forgotten, 
he,  poor  fellow,  would  be  haunted  by  a  memory  too  deep 
to  crush  out. 

Colonel  Brooke  lounges  into  the  dormeuse  beside  Mrs. 
Craven ;  young  Thornton  stands  with  his  back  to  the 
chimney-piece,  and  the  talk  is  of  theatres,  operas,  little 
scandals,  and  such  things  as  men  and  women  of  the 
world  do  talk  of  over  afternoon  tea.  Colonel  Brooke 
and  Mrs.  Craven  are  not  in  the  secret  of  Georgy's 
disappointment,  and  the  latter  innocently  tells  a  touching 
story  of  the  blighted  affections  of  a  certain  young  Guards- 
man, who  loved  a  lady  fair  and  false,  and  is  supposed  to 
have  gone  to  the  bad  in  consequence. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

A  DISCUSSION. 

"  JUST  like  'em  !"  breaks  in  Georgy,  bitterly.  "What 
do  they  care,  as  long  as  they're  amused  !  I  suppose  it's 
a  good  thing  to  find  them  out  in  time.  I've  given  up 
believing  in  them  long  ago."  (The  long  ago  in  Georgy's 
reckoning  of  time  is  exactly  a  fortnight.) 

"  How  absurd  for  a  boy  like  you  to  talk  in  that  way  !" 
laughs  Mrs.  Craven. 

"There  isn't  much  of  the  boy  left  in  one  after  four 
years  in  the  service,  Mrs.  Craven,"  says  young  Thornton, 
with  a  shade  of  pique ;  "  the  taunt  don't  go  home." 


124  DOLORES. 

"What  a  goose  you  are,  Georgy!  as  if  I  meant  to 
taunt  you." 

"  No,  but  that's  such  a  favorite  weapon  of  you  charm- 
ing women.  You  lead  fellows,  on,  or  you  play  with  them, 
or  make  catspaws  of  them,  and  then  afterwards,  if  any 
mischief  comes  of  it,  or  they're  indignant,  or  you've 
broken  their  hearts  and  sent  them  to  the  devil,  it's 
always,  '  That  boy !  who  would  have  fancied  his  being  so 
ridiculous? — too  absurd,  you  know !'  and  the  woman  who 
has  been  crazing  your  brain  with  her  soft  looks  and 
speeches  turns  round  when  it's  got  as  far  as  she  chooses, 
and  says  with  the  most  maternal  air,  '  My  dear  boy,  it's 
too  absurd.  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  mother.'  They 
don't  say  that  when  it's  really  true,"  ends  up  Georgy, 
grimly,  "  only  when  they  know  they're  looking  awfully 
young  and  fresh  and  well." 

"Apropos  de  quoi 7"  utters  Mrs.  Craven  plaintively. 
"  Did  I  ever  encourage  any  boy,  and  then  tell  him  I  was 
old  enough  to  be  his  mother?" 

The  tone  is  so  helplessly  pathetic,  every  one  laughs  but 
Georgy,  who  is  in  earnest. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  insist  on  the  discussion  being  per- 
sonal," he  retorts  petulantly,  "I  have  nothing  more  to 
say ;  I  was  only  speaking  about  women  generally,  and  am 
not  aware  of  having  broken  through  the  rule  that  excepts 
'  present  company. '  Of  course  I  give  in  that  you  and 
Milly  are  angels,  full  of  heart  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
as  women  ought  to  be ;  but  I  say  again,  and  I  stick  to  it, 
that  women  are  not  to  be  trusted,  and  are  full  of  deceit, 
and  cruelty,  and  vanity." 

"You've  made  your  discovery  at  least  ten  years  too 
soon,"  says  Colonel  Brooke  quietly. 

"Men  who  live  as  hard  as  we  do,"  returns  Thornton, 
with  a  touch  of  conscious  pride  that  makes  the  other 


A  DISCUSSION.  125 

smile,  "  cut  their  wisdom  teeth  pretty  early.     There  isn't 
much  any  one  could  tell  us." 

"Oh,  Colonel  Brooke!"  cries  Mrs.  Craven,  "you 
don't  think  like  this  bad  boy — you  don't  believe  we're  all 
so  wicked  and  heartless?" 

"  God  forbid  !"  he  answers,  quickly.  "  I  believe  there 
are  some  very  good  women  in  the  world." 

Mrs.  Scarlett  glances  gently  at  him;  she  knows  he 
might  well  be  excused  for  having  bitter  thoughts  of  the 
sex.  She  knows,  too,  that  he  is  far  too  thorough  a  gen- 
tleman to  give  utterance  to  any  depreciatory  opinion  of 
them  in  their  presence. 

"Not  'in  the  world,'  you  don't  mean,"  says  Georgy, 
paraphrasing  him;  "out  of  the  world  somewhere,  per- 
haps ;  down  in  the  country  beyond  the  reach  of  railways 
and  Paris  fashions  and  circulating  libraries." 

"And  wicked,  idle,  blase  young  Hussars  and  Guards- 
men !"  adds  Mrs.  Scarlett,  archly. 

"But,  upon  my  word,  Georgy,"  puts  in  Mrs.  Craven, 
"  I  can't  think  what  has  come  to  you,  who  used  to  be  such 
zpreux  chevalier — unless,  indeed,  you're  getting  corrupted 
by  that  horrid  Captain  Brenton." 

"  I  should  just  like  you  to  hear  him  hold  forth  a  little,'* 
says  young  Thornton,  grimly;  "  he  wouldn't  mind  a  bit. 
I've  heard  him  tell  women  some  very  pretty  things  novr 
and  then ;  quite  true,  though.  They  were  shut  up,  and 
couldn't  say  a  word.  Only  the  other  day,  at  Lady 

G 's  he  was  on  his  favorite  theme ;  there  were  foui 

or  five  fashionable  beauties  there,  and  he  told  them  the 
only  men  who  knew  how  to  treat  women  were  Turks. 
Women  were  very  well  just  to  amuse  men,  but  of  course 
they  had  no  minds,  no  reasoning  powers ;  were  just  fit  to 
dance,  to  dress,  to  chatter,  to  intrigue;  but  there  their 
capabilities  ended." 

11* 


126  DOLORES. 

"Did  he  really  say  that?"  asks  Mrs.  Craven,  opening 
her  blue  eyes. 

"Yes,  and  they  looked  quite  foolish." 
"I  suppose  you  had  the  story  from  him,  eh,  Georgy?" 
says  Colonel  Brooke,  looking  up. 

"Yes,"  he  answers,  a  little  defiantly.  "Why?" 
"Because  I  heard  the  end  of  it  from  some  one  else. 
Mrs.  Basbleu  was  there,  and  she  listened  very  quietly  while 
he  went  on  talking.  '  I've  traveled  all  over  the  world,1  he 
said,  in  that  insolent,  affected  tone  that  always  makes  one 
long  to  kick  him.  'I've  bought  my  experience,  and  I 
know  that  a  good  or  true  woman  is  a  thing  never  met  with 
out  of  a  novel.' 

"  *  I  dare  say  you  have  traveled  a  good  deal,  and  bought 
a  good  deal  of  experience  of  our  sex  (rich  men  generally 
have),'  says  Mrs.  Basbleu,  in  her  quiet  way,  'but  you'll 
have  to  travel  a  little  further,  and  buy  a  little  more,  to 
teach  you  that  it's  bad  taste  to  talk  to  ladies  as  you've 
done  to-day.'  " 

"Bravo,  Gracie !"  cries  Mrs.  Scarlett.  "I'm  de- 
lighted. That's  what  makes  me  so  angry  with  women, 
to  think  they  allow  men  to  say  all  kinds  of  impertinences 
without  taking  them  up.  If  a  man  has  ten  thousand  a 
year,  like  Captain  Brenton,  he  may  say  and  do  anything. 
Wasn't  he  furious?" 

"  He  couldn't  say  a  word,  and  Lady  G ,  with  her 

usual  tact,  changed  the  subject.  But  I  heard  him  worse 
sat  upon  than  that  in  Paris.  He  was  giving  his  pet  tirade 
at  an  afternoon  tea  of  Mrs.  Poynby's — she  used  to  get 
them  up  twice  a  week.  When  he  began  I  got  up  to  go, 
because  it  didn't  amuse  me,  and  of  course  you  can't  go 
down  a  man's  throat  when  ladies  are  present,  as  you  would 
at  your  club,  or  in  a  smoking-room.  It  took  me  a  minute 
or  two  to  make  my  adieu,  or  I  should  have  missed  a  great 


A   DISCUSSION.  12  7 

gratification.  He  was  just  saying  he  didn't  believe  there 
were  ten  virtuous  women  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland. 
There  was  a  little  American  present,  very  quick  and  im- 
pulsive, as  most  of  them  are,  and  she  jumped  up  with 
blazing  eyes.  'I  don't  know  who  you  are,  sir,  and  I 
don't  care,  but  I'll  take  the  liberty  to  tell  you  that  you 
are  a  liar  and  a  coward,  and  I  only  wish  I  was  a  man,  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  kicking  you  down -stairs !'  " 

"I  think  I'll  go,"  says  Georgy  at  this  juncture.     He 
has  been  looking  very  savage  the  last  five  minutes. 
"  Why,  dear?"  asks  Milly  Scarlett. 
"Because  it  doesn't  amuse  me  to  hear  my  friends  tra- 
duced behind  their  backs.     I  am  not  a  woman." 

"And  it  doesn't  amuse  us  to  be  abused  to  our  faces," 
laughs  Milly.  "  But  come,  sit  down,  and  don't  be  cross; 
we  won't  say  another  word  about  your  dear  Py lades.  But, 
you  know,  you  brought  him  on  the  ground  first.  After 
all,  what  does  it  matter  what  people  say  behind  our  backs, 
if  they  are  civil  to  our  faces?" 

"A  regular  woman's  doctrine, -that,"  retorts  young 
Thornton. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  Milly  continues,  "that  men  have 
forgotten  all  about  the  chivalrous  old  days ;  they  have  long 
ago  laid  down  the  swords  they  used  to  wield  for  us,  and 
even  taken  up  the  pen  against  us." 

"  Pshaw,  Milly !  quite  wrong.  Who  writes  all  the  bitter 
articles  about  women  ?  Who  puts  one  behind  the  scenes 
of  your  trickeries  and  shams  and  falsehoods?  Where  do 
we  get  all  our  knowledge  of  you,  all  our  mistrust  of  you  ? 
Where  but  from  your  own  sex  ?  If  one  wants  the  newest 
scandal  with  its  minutest  details,  if  one  wants  to  make 
merry  over  a  broken  heart  and  a  shattered  reputation, 
where  does  one  go  ?  Not  to  the  club,  lien  entendu,  but 
to  the  charming  little  boudoir  of  a  woman  of  the  world — 


I28  DOLORES. 

not  too  young  nor  too  particular ;  and  if  you  leave  there 
with  an  unshaken  belief  in  the  goodness  and  faithfulness 
of  women — why,  you  must  be  either  a  fool  or  a  fanatic." 

"That  sort  of  women  are  a  disgrace  to  their  sex,"  cries 
Milly,  hotly.  "  Of  course,  if  men  are  so  blind  and  so 
easily  duped,  it's  hopeless  to  try  to  undeceive  them.  Who 
are  the  women  that  want  to  depreciate  their  sex  to  men? 
and  what  object  can  they  have  in  opening  men's  eyes,  as 
they  profess  ?  They  are  only  too  frightened  that  the  men 
over  whom  they  have  any  influence  may  find  some  woman 
or  girl  who  is  pure  and  loving,  the  very  contact  with  whom 
would  make  them  loathe  themselves ;  and,  oh,  it  makes 
me  so  angry  to  hear  the  cant  of  the  day  about  women — 
the  perpetual  slanderous  tongue  that  acknowledges  neither 
goodness  nor  purity  nor  truth  in  anything  or  any  one. 
What  about  the  Florence  Nightingales,  the  women  who 
nursed  our  sick  soldiers  through  the  Crimea  ?  What  about 
the  thousands  of  good  self-denying  creatures  who  are 
laboring  year  after  year  in  the  midst  of  repulsive  poverty 
and  sickness  and  crime  ? — who  nurse  men  when  they  get 
ill,  who  comfort  them  when  they  are  in  trouble ;  where  do 
they  go  when  they  find  the  world  unsympathetic,  when  their 
ambition  is  disappointed,  but  to  a  woman?  And  even 
when  a  woman  has  behaved  badly  to  them,  where  do  they 
go  for  sympathy  but,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  to  another 
woman  ?' ' 

Milly  Scarlett's  face  is  flushed  and  eager  as  she  bends 
forward,  speaking  quickly,  with  a  real  interest  in  her 
subject.  Mrs.  Craven  looks  amused ;  Colonel  Brooke 
watches  her  keenly,  with  a  certain  admiration  of  her 
enthusiasm.  George  Thornton  steadily  contemplates  his 
well-varnished  boots. 

"You  judge  women,"  continues  Mrs.  Scarlett,  almost 
passionately,  "by  a  few  hundreds  whom  you  meet  in 


A  DISCUSS f ON.  129 

society,  and  whom  you  yourselves  have  spoiled.  A  woman 
is  beautiful,  or  perhaps  not — perhaps  somebody  has  made 
her  the  fashion,  and,  whether  you  care  the  least  bit  about 
her  or  not,  you  all  run  after  her,  crowd  round  her 
carriage  by  the  park  railings,  troop  into  her  box  at  the 
Opera,  surround  her  whenever  she  appears  in  public,  and 
do  your  very  best  to  make  her  believe  she  is  something 
more  than  mortal.  The  chances  are,  you  don't  care  for 
her — she  doesn't  amuse  you  a  bit,  she  is  ridiculously  vain, 
utterly  wanting  in  tact,  and  sometimes,  presuming  on  her 
attractions,  says  very  rude  things;  but  it's  the  thing  to 
be  seen  with  her,  so  you  pass  by  a  score  of  good-hearted 
young  women,  who  would  be  glad  to  talk  to  you,  with  a 
little  distant  bow,  and  move  on,  to  swell  the  circle  round 
the  one  who,  except  for  vanity,  doesn't  care  whether  you  are 
there  or  a  thousand  miles  away.  Or  else,  perhaps  a  woman 
is  clever  and  amuses  you,  so  you  go  and  lounge  about  in 
her  drawing-room  two  or  three  times  a  week,  if  it  doesn't 
look  too  pointed ;  or  you  drop  into  a  chair  by  her  in  the 
Row,  or  contrive  to  sit  next  her  at  dinner,  because  she  is 
such  'awfully  good  company,'  and  takes  away  the  ennui 
which  is  the  curse  of  all  your  lives  nowadays.  You  haven't 
the  resources,  you  know,  of  your  grandfathers,  who  sat 
down  to  dinner  at  three,  and  went  on  drinking  until  they 
were  helped  in  blissful  unconsciousness  to  bed.  Or  per- 
haps," Mrs.  Scarlett  continues,  speaking  more  evenly  and 
quietly  now — "  perhaps  a  woman  is  only  beautiful,  and 
you  fall  in  love  with  her  sheer  beauty,  and  she  may  sit 
up  to  receive  you  exquisitely  dressed,  looking  faultlessly 
perfect ;  and  you  are  content  to  sit  and  stare  at  her, 
and  tell  her  over  and  over  again  that  she  is  the  most 
lovely  creatuie  in  the  world.  It  doesn't  matter  the  least 
what  it  is  the  woman  is  liked  for,  whether  fashion,  wit, 
or  beauty — any  one  who  has  a  great  many  lovers,  who 
I 


I30 


DOLORES. 


hears  herself  perpetually  praised  and  admired,  can't  help 
getting  spoiled  and  heartless;  she  can't  care  for  all  the 
men  who  fall  in  love  with  her,  but  her  vanity  won't  let 
her  be  quite  honest  with  them;  she  likes  to  have  them 
about  her,  it  looks  well  and  draws  more ;  and,  besides,  it 
makes  other  women  envy  her." 

"Stop  and  take  breath,  Milly!"  interrupts  George 
Thornton,  in  the  half-affectionate,  half-impertinent  tone 
she  has  known  him  too  long  to  resent.  "  What  a  pity  we 
haven't  got  a  short-hand  writer  here  !" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  being  teased  a  bit,"  laughs  Mrs. 
Scarlett,  good-humoredly,  "and  I  haven't  half  finished 
yet.  So,  as  I  was  saying,  you  take  a  certain  class  of 
women,  whom  you  yourselves  have  spoiled,  and  sit  in 
judgment  on  them  afterwards,  as  the  true  types  of  all  the 
sex.  Girls  bore  you — you  'go  in  for  married  women,'  as 
you  say,  not  remembering,  of  course,  that  if  they  were 
what  they  should  be,  they  wouldn't  have  anything  to  say 
to  you.  What  are  the  girls  to  do  if  they  want  to  be 
noticed  and  admired,  as  most  naturally  they  do  ?  Why, 
either  they  must  try  to  copy  that  fastness  which  seems  so 
enormously  attractive  to  men,  or  else  marry  a  man  with 
money,  who  can  put  them  in  a  position  they  can't  help 
envying." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Scarlett,"  interrupts  Colonel  Brooke, 
"  that's  the  very  root  of  the  matter.  No  man  can  feel  sure 
nowadays  that  he  is  being  married  for  love  if  he  has  any 
money  or  position  at  all;  he  only  fancies  he  is  being 
made  the  stepping-stone  to  a  girl's  ambition.  She  wants 
to  marry  him  that  she  may  flirt  with  his  friends,  and  have 
an  establishment  of  her  own,  and  go  out  without  a  chap- 
eron. If  you  could  only  dream  (for  you  don't  see  half) 
how  eldest  sons  and  fellows  with  money  are  pestered  out 
of  their  lives — the  invitation-cards  stuck  all  over  their 


A  DISCUSSION,  ijj 

chimney-glasses;  the  millions  of  flattering  little  notes. 
In  fact,  they  are  toadied  until  they're  ready  to  turn  to 
anything,  only  to  get  away  from  it  all.  And  the  other 
poor  fellows  without  a  shilling  may  be  ever  so  good-look- 
ing, and  amusing,  and  faultlessly  got  up,  but  who  cares 
a  rush  for  them,  except  to  lead  a  cotillion,  or  waltz  with, 
or  fill  a  vacant  place  at  dinner  ?  I  mean  what  girl  ? — 
because,  of  course,  their  being  poor  doesn't  matter  to 
women  who  don't  want  to  marry  them.  And  if  by 
chance  they  do  fall  in  love  with  some  fresh  pretty  girl, 
and  she  seems  fond  of  them,  don't  they  know  that  a 
week  later,  if  she  gets  the  chance,  she'll  engage  herself 
to  any  little  beast  of  a  fellow  who  happens  to  have  a  title 
or  a  heap  of  money?" 

"  Of  course,"  says  Mrs.  Scarlett,  "  you  -will  keep  in 
that  one  groove  of  the  women  who  live  and  breathe  in 
the  world  of  fashion.  As  if  there  were  not  thousands 
and  thousands  who  would  take  a  man  because  they  loved 
him,  and  be  true  to  him,  and  never  want  any  one  else. 
You  want  an  exotic,  and  then  are  angry  because  it  won't 
bloom  out  of  a  hothouse.  Why  not  look  for  a  fresh, 
simple  girl,  such  as  there  are  hundreds  of?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but  they  aren't  amusing,  you  know," 
answers  Colonel  Brooke,  plaintively. 

"Ah,"  says  Milly,  laughing,  "I'm  afraid  you  want 
too  much.  A  woman  of  the  world,  yet  quite  unsophisti- 
cated— clever,  but  not  self-conscious — beautiful,  but  not 
desiring  admiration — a  woman  that  every  man  would  envy 
you  (or,  like  all  men,  you  wouldn't  value  her),  and  who 
would  not  have  a  look  or  thought  for  any  one  but  you." 

"  I  never  dreamed  of  anything  so  impossibly  charming, 
I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Scarlett." 

"Milly,"  interposes  Mrs.  Craven  at  this  juncture, 
casting  a  look  at  the  clock,  "we  shall  never  have  time 


132 


DOLORES. 


to  dress  before  dinner  if  you  and  Colonel  Brooke  don't 
make  a  speedy  end  to  your  discussion.  And  we  want  to 
see  the  beginning  of  the  piece." 

The  colonel  takes  the  hint,  and  rises ;  young  Thornton 
prepares  to  accompany  him. 

"I  won't  injure  my  reputation  for  good  dinners  by 
asking  either  of  you  to  stay  and  dine,"  smiles  Mrs.  Scar- 
lett. "  My  cook  is  out  for  the  day.  And  nowadays  you 
men  think  of  nothing  in  the  world  but  that  one  great 
event." 

"What  a  calumny!  You  always  say  we  live  for  no- 
thing else,  but  I  assure  you  that's  another  fallacy.  The 
society  of  charming  women " 

"Won't  makeup  for  an  indifferent  dinner.  Oh,  you 
forget  how  often  you've  treated  me  to  tirades  upon  the 
pet  subject.  'People  aren't  fit  to  live,  you  know,  who 
can't  appreciate  a  good  dinner' — mimicking  him — 'and 
any  one  who  gives  you  a  bad  one  ought  to  be  hanged,  or 
drowned,  or  something.' " 

"Good-by,"  says  Colonel  Brooke,  laughing.  "I'm 
bound  to  get  the  worst  of  it  this  afternoon." 

"  Good-by — good-by,  Georgy.  You've  been  very  rude 
to  us  this  afternoon,  but  we  forgive  you." 

She  gives  him  her  hand,  and  looks  ever  so  kindly  into 
his  eyes.  His  anger  against  the  sex  melts  as  snow  in 
sunshine,  and  he  whispers  eagerly, — 

"I  may  come  and  see  you  sometimes  still,  mayn't  I?" 

"Of  course  you  may." 

Since  that  day  Georgy  has  both  believed  and  deceived 
*he  sex;  he  hasn't  turned  misanthrope  yet,  and  is  gener- 
ally to  be  found  in  close  attendance  upon  a  pretty  woman. 


BY  THE  FIRELIGHT.  133 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

BY  THE   FIRELIGHT. 

MIDNIGHT  booms  from  Big  Ben.  Mrs.  Scarlett  and 
Laura  Craven  are  sitting  over  a  roasting  fire  in  the  for- 
mer's bedroom,  brushing  their  hair  after  dismissing  their 
maids.  Not  an  original  situation  in  a  novel,  granted, 
still  less  so  out  of  one,  for  if  there  is  a  time  dear  to  the 
female  heart  for  these  little  tpanchemcnts ,  restrained  at 
other  times,  it  is  the  witching  hour  of  night.  Brush  in 
hand,  tresses  unbound,  luxuriously  reclined  in  well-stuffed 
arm-chairs,  a  greater  degree  of  affection  and  confidence 
breathes  itself  into  the  spirit  of  the  fair  friends ;  and  even 
women  who  are  only  acquaintances  cannot  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  a  gossip  over  the  bedroom  fire,  particularly  if  it's 
very  late  and  they  know  they  ought  to  have  been  in  bed 
hours  ago.  Women  never  quarrel  at  these  midnight  st- 
ances ;  they  make  common  cause,  and  probably  arraign 
the  absent  pretty  sharply,  but  for  each  other  the  claws  are 
sheathed  in  the  soft  velvet  paws,  and  perfect  harmony 
presides  at  the  meeting.  I  never  heard  of  women  falling 
out  upon  these  occasions. 

The  two  friends  are  perfectly  d* accord  as  they  sit 
making  faint  pretense  of  brushing  their  long  loose  hair — • 
a  sight  worth  looking  at  in  these  days,  when  a  wealth  of 
tresses  is  somewhat  rare,  though  not  so  rare  as  men  affect 
to  think.  The  four  little  feet  ranged  on  the  fender  are 
thrust  into  dainty  satin  slippers,  and  it  seems  a  thousand 
pities  the  fair  ones  can't  "  receive"  in  the  peignoirs  that 
are  so  undeniably  becoming. 

12 


134  DOLORES. 

"Really,"  utters  Mrs.  Craven,  in  a  tone  of  genuine 
chagrin,  as  she  contemplates  the  long  meshes  of  her  golden 
hair  against  the  firelight,  "it's  a  great  shame  when  one 
has  good  hair  not  to  be  able  to  show  it ;  of  course  I  know 
men  think  it's  only  put  on,  and  the  women  who  haven't 
got  good  hair  always  try  to  make  them  believe  every  one 
else's  artificial.  That  horrid  Mrs.  Carlton  told  Captain 
Gore  she  was  in  at  Douglas's  when  I  bought  mine." 

"What  does  it  matter?"  answers  Mrs.  Scarlett.  "I 
don't  care  myself  what  people  think  or  say." 

"What  nonsense,  Milly  !  As  if  you  wouldn't  like  to 
go  about  with  it  all  down  your  back — you  know  it's  mag- 
nificent. When  we  were  at  Biarritz  last  year,  I  wanted  to 
let  mine  down  because  people  said  it  was  false,  only  that 
disagreeable,  provoking  Harry  wouldn't  let  me." 

"  I  suppose  he  doesn't  want  any  one  else  to  admire  it." 

Mrs.  Craven  makes  a  contemptuous  little  moue. 

"As  if  he  cared  !  I  might  wear  a  wig  for  aught  he 
knows.  Now  and  then,  when  I'm  trailing  it  out  before  the 
glass,  he  says  in  his  gruff  way,  '  Don't  be  so  vain,  Laura,' 
and  when  I  ask  him,  just  in  fun,  if  it  isn't  lovely,  he  only 
remarks,  '  It's  a  good  deal  too  long,  and  not  the  color  he 
likes' — as  if  your  husband  knew  or  cared  a  bit  if  you  were 
a  Venus  when  you've  been  married  to  him  five  years  ! 
What  fools  women  are  to  marry!"  with  a  little  vicious 
jerk  of  the  brush.  "Oh,  Milly,  what  a  goose  you  are, 
and  how  sorry  you'll  be  for  it !" 

"  I !"  echoes  Mrs.  Scarlett,  gazing  into  the  fire  with  a 
bright  look  stealing  into  her  eyes.  "  No,  I  don't  think  I 
shall." 

"  Only  consider  all  you  are  going  to  give  up  !  Here 
you  are  at  five-and-twenty,  your  own  mistress,  well  off, 
living  in  London,  with  heaps  of  men  in  love  with  you. 
Oh,  how  I  wish  I  was  a  widow!  I  don't  mean  that  I 


BY  7WE  FIRELIGHT,  135 

want  Harry  to  die ;  of  course  it  would  make  me  wretched 
anything  happening  to  him ;  but  if  I  could  only  have 
married  some  rich  old  man  I  hated,  who  would  have  died 
and  left  me  all  his  money,  oh,  how  happy  I  should  be ! 
How  I  wish  I  was  a  widow  !" 

"  It's  not  such  a  very  enviable  position,"  Mrs.  Scarlett 
interrupts,  bitterly. 

"  You  know,  Milly,"  proceeds  Laura,  oracularly,  "I've 
completely  thrown  myself  away.  Of  course  I  am  pretty, 
I  need  not  have  any  false  modesty  with  you,  for  you  flat- 
ter me  as  much  as  any  one ;  if  I  hadn't  been  goose  enough 
to  marry  Mr.  Craven  I  should  been  enjoying  myself  most 
thoroughly  now.  Of  course  I  should  have  no  end  of  men 
in  love  with  me,  as  you  have." 

"A  great  many  more,  I  should  hope,"  interrupts  Milly. 

"Well,  I  should  be  quite  satisfied  with  as  many.  But 
now  I'm  married,  as  soon  as  men  get  too  attentive,  I'm 
obliged  to  assume  an  air  of  iced  propriety,  because,  what- 
ever people  may  say,  I  don't  flirt.  Do  I?  And  you — 
well,  you  had  four  letters  this  very  morning  ;  I  recognized 
the  writing  of  two,  and  I  knew  the  monograms  of  the 
others.  All  full  of  protestations  and  despair,  of  course, 
eh,  Milly?"  And  Mrs.  Craven  laughs  her  pretty  but 
rather  vacant  laugh. 

"  Now,  just  look  at  me,  shut  up  in  a  dull  country  place 
month  after  month,  with  hardly  any  society,  and  a  hus- 
band who  is  farming  all  day,  and  goes  to  sleep  and  snores 
regularly  every  evening  after  dinner.  If  he'd  only  let  me 
come  up  to  town  for  the  season — but  no  !  just  three  weeks 
to  the  very  day  is  all  I  get  of  London,  though  he  knows  I 
adore  it ;  and  then  he  prowls  about  all  the  time,  looking  as 
if  it  would  be  his  death.  Men  are  so  abominably  selfish. 
Sometimes,  Milly — I  dare  say  you  won't  believe  it,  because 
I'm  always  cheerful  and  happy  when  you're  with  me — but 


136  DOLORES. 

sometimes  I  cry  for  a  whole  day  together;  and  when 
Harry  comes  in,  though  he  sits  opposite  me  at  dinner,  he 
never  even  sees  that  my  eyes  are  red.  We  don't  quarrel, 
and  I  dare  say  people  quote  us  as  a  model  pair,  because 

our  names  are  never  coupled  with  anybody  else,  but ' ' 

And  a  long  sigh,  a  wistful  glance  in  the  fire,  finish  the 
sentence. 

"Every  one  is  unhappy,  sometimes,  I  suppose,"  says 
Mrs.  Scarlett,  reflectively,  drawing  the  comb  lingeringly 
through  the  masses  of  her  dark  hair — "every  one.  Every 
one,  at  least,  who  has  a  vestige  of  romance  or  ideality. 
Oh,  how  I  envy  the  dull,  stupid,  commonplace,  phleg- 
matic people,  who  never  can  suffer  great  disappointment 
because  they  never  have  great  aspirations — the  people  who 
live  in  their  poor,  vulgar,  narrow-minded,  circumscribed 
world,  and  are  happy  and  contented  because  they  never 
dream  of  anything  higher,  happier,  better!" 

"My  dear  Milly,"  interrupts  Laura,  plaintively,  "don't 
be  high-flown,  or  I  shall  think  you're  talking  at  me.  I'm 
not  clever,  and  you  are.  I  am  one  of  the  empty-headed 
frivolous  sort.  I  never  reflect,  I  haven't  got  any  aspira- 
tions, as  you  call  them,  I  don't  go  into  paroxysms  about 
something  far  off  in  the  clouds  that  I  can't  reach,  and 
only  break  my  heart  in  striving  after ;  all  I  want  is  com- 
monplace, tangible,  real.  I  want  to  live  in  town,  to  have 
a  nice  house,  the  handsomest  ponies  in  London,  and  to 
be  a  widow." 

"Hush,  Laura!" 

"My  dear  Milly,  do  understand  me — not  Harry's 
widow,  but  the  widow  of  some  horrid  dyspeptic  old 
wretch  that  I  never  saw.  However,  since  that  shocks 
you,  I  abandon  the  idea,  and  consent  to  remain  as  I  am ; 
for  Harry  isn't  jealous,  and  society  certainly  allows  one  a 
very  fair  amount  of  latitude  in  these  days." 


BY  THE   FIRELIGHT.  137 

"And  I,"  says  Milly,  passionately — "I  only  want  to 
love  with  my  whole  soul,  to  be  loved  as  much  in  return, 
and  never  to  see  or  want  or  think  of  any  one  else.  I 
would  love  his  faults  as  well  as  his  virtues — I  would  sac- 
rifice everything  in  the  world,  small  or  great,  for  him; 
but  he  must  do  the  same  for  me." 

Mrs.  Craven  leans  back  in  her  chair,  to  indulge  in  a 
perfect  peal  of  laughter.  Milly  laughs,  too,  but  there  is 
a  bitter  ring  in  her  voice. 

"My  dear,  don't  you  think  I'm  aware  of  the  highly 
ridiculous  nature  of  my  speech?  Of  course  people  never 
love  like  that  in  this  world — or,  if  they  do,  one  of  them 
dies.  Only,  while  one  is  wishing,  as  you  were  just  now, 
one  may  as  well  wish  for  the  impossible  as  the  possible.' 

"I  wasn't  laughing  at  that.  What  amused  me  was  to 
hear  you  talk  about  loving  one  man,  and  wanting  no  one 
else,  when  you  know  you  are  the  coldest,  most  heartless 
creature  in  the  world,  and  are  never  satisfied  unless  you 
have  half  a  dozen  lovers  at  the  same  time.  I'm  laughing 
too,  to  think  of  your  expecting  such  devotion  from  a 
husband.  Poor  Captain  Charteris !  My  dear  Milly,  he's 
very  handsome,  and  for  the  present  no  doubt  he'll  be  all 
your  fondest  expectations  can  desire;  but  don't  insist  on 
too  much  by-and-by,  or  you'll  both  be  miserable.  But 
of  course  I  know  it's  only  talk  with  you — you  have  no 
heart  really.  You'll  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for.  I 
know  several  men  whom  you've  made  dreadfully  un- 
happy. ' ' 

"  Nonsense,  Laura,  nothing  of  the  sort.  They  did  not 
really  care  for  me.  It  is  quite  enough  to  be  indifferent  to 
a  man,  and  he  fancies  himself  mad  about  you — he  can't 
possibly  live  out  of  your  sight ;  and  the  very  same  man, 
if  you  loved  him,  if  he  knew  he  could  make  you  misera- 
ble, if  you  showed  yourself  delighted  when  he  came,  and 

13* 


138  DOLORES. 

wretched  when  he  went  away,  would  be  bored  with  you 
in  a  month.  You  would  come  to  be  that  '  poor  little  girl 
who's  so  awfully  fond  of  me,'  instead  of  'the  woman  I'd 
sell  my  soul  for.'  Indifference  is  the  strength  of  those 
who  possess  it — they  can  always  command  lovers  and 
friends.  Men  are  horribly  disappointing." 

"Harry  is,  I  know,"  responds  Laura,  pathetically. 

"  De  deux  amants,  il  y  a  toujours  un  qui  aime,  et  un  qui 
se  laisse  aimer,"  says  Mrs.  Scarlett.  "This  world's  very 
unsatisfactory,"  with  a  sigh;  "everything  is  at  cross- 
purposes,  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  we  all  know  it — first 
from  hearsay,  and  then  from  experience ;  but  that  doesn't 
prevent  our  going  again  to  the  broken  cistern  for  water." 

"What's  that  noise?"  cries  Mrs.  Craven,  suddenly 
jumping  up. 

"It's  only  Faithful,"  answers  Mrs.  Scarlett.  "He 
always  sleeps  on  the  mat  outside  my  door,  and  doesn't 
understand  hearing  my  voice  at  this  time  of  night." 
And,  opening  the  door,  she  lets  him  in.  The  dog  walks 
solemnly  up  to  her  as  she  resumes  her  seat  by  the  fire,  and 
sits  down  in  front  of  her  with  his  nose  thrust  into  her 
hand,  and  his  loving,  faithful  dog's  eyes  turned  up  to 
her,  while  his  tail  gives  slow  thuds  of  contentment  on 
the  rug. 

"Oh,  Milly,  how  can  you  have  that  horrid  dog  in 
here?"  And  Milly  answers,  smiling, — 

"  I  know  how  to  appreciate  a  true  friend." 

"It's  time  we  were  in  bed,"  cries  Laura;  and  the 
friends  part  with  a  kiss,  and  Faithful  resumes  his  guard 
of  honor  on  the  mat  outside. 

But  Milly  does  not  -go  to  bed  just  yet ;  she  sits  down 
again  by  the  fire,  and  looks  thoughtfully  into  the  burning 
coals.  I  should  like  to  describe  her  to  you,  but  the  task 
is  more  than  difficult.  I  may  well  ink  my  pen  and  begin 


BY  THE  FIRELIGHT.  139 

fifty  different  sheets  of  paper,  in  the  endeavor  to  give  any 
adequate  description  of  Milly  Scarlett. 

How  can  one  be  expected  to  reconcile  paradoxes?  Tc 
attempt  to  describe  some  people  is  like  taking  the  bits  of 
glass  out  of  a  kaleidoscope.  Leave  them  where  they  are, 
they  present  an  harmonious  whole ;  take  them  to  pieces, 
they  are  only  so  many  bits  of  different  sized  and  colored 
glass,  that  put  you  at  your  wit's  end  to  match. 

There  are  some  women  the  very  essence  of  whose  nature 
is  change — who  cannot  be,  because  they  cannot  feel,  always 
the  same — who  have  a  thousand  different  moods,  caprices, 
and  feelings.  To  this  class  Mrs.  Scarlett  belonged.  I  think 
she  had  in  her  nearly  all  the  attributes  that  go  to  make  a 
good  and  bad  woman. 

What  shall  I  say  of  her?  First,  then,  she  was  intensely 
a  woman  ;  womanly  in  her  instinct  to  side  with  what  she 
loved  rather  than  what  was  strictly  just ;  womanly  in  her 
championship  of  the  weak;  womanly  in  her  apprecia- 
tion of  the  elegancies  and  refinements  of  polished  life ; 
womanly  beyond  all  in  her  intense  desire  to  please,  her 
love  of  approbation,  and  the  inordinate  value  she  set  on 
personal  appearance  and  manner  in  both  sexes.  A  bril- 
liant imagination,  a  ready  wit,  a  charming  manner  to  those 
she  liked,  a  very  frigid  and  haughty  one  to  those  who  dis- 
pleased her — a  woman  who  inspired  spontaneously  either 
great  liking  or  the  reverse. 

Milly  was  very  bright  and  blithe  sometimes,  very  bitlei 
and  disappointed  at  others.  In  one  mood  she  would  revel 
in  life  and  excitement,  in  another  she  would  rail  at  Fate 
and  the  world — would  protest  indignantly  against  the 
cruelty  that  gives  blessings  and  saps  all  power  of  enjoy- 
ment out  of  them.  At  these  times  she  suffered  intensely 
from  seeing  how  fair  life  might  be,  and  how  rotten  it  is  at 
the  core.  She  had  that  intense,  supreme  longing  after 


140  DOLORES. 

happiness  that  is  the  keenest  torture  of  all  large  minds, 
because  their  disappointment  is  proportionate.  "I  have 
lived  and  loved — let  me  die  !"  had  been  her  motto  with 
Thekla  once.  She  had  set  up  to  herself  an  idol,  had  hung 
it  with  the  precious  gifts  of  her  love  and  faith  and  truth, 
as  all  these  passionate-hearted  women  do,  and  it  had  been, 
after  all,  a  poor  clay  figure,  beautiful  in  no  one's  eyes  but 
hers.  She  awoke  from  her  delusion,  but  her  own  heart 
alone  knew  the  exceeding  bitterness  of  that  tardy  dis- 
covery. To  learn  to  disbelieve  where  one's  whole  faith 
has  centred — what  sharper  sting  of  all  sore  pains  poor 
flesh  is  heir  to? 

"  I  have  no  heart,"  she  had  been  used  to  say,  with  the 
passionate  tears,  themselves  a  contradiction,  glistening  in 
her  eyes;  "  I  don't  believe  in  love,  or  truth,  or  happi- 
ness, or  anything  else.  We  are  born  to  be  wretched  and 
miserable,  and  to  have  everything  we  care  for  taken  away 
from  us. 

"  There  is  no  help,  for  all  these  things  are  so, 
And  all  the  world  is  bitter  as  a  tear. 
And  how  these  things  are,  though  ye  strove  to  show, 
She  would  not  know." 

With  which  favorite  quotation  she  would  walk  up  and 
down  the  room  with  flashing  eyes,  and  then,  flinging  her- 
self into  a  chair,  would  launch  a  further  tirade  against  the 
bitterness  of  life.  And  if  any  one,  coming  in  a  little 
later,  would  bring  in  some  pitiful  story  of  want,  or  sick- 
ness, or  suffering,  she  would  be  filled  with  a  bitter,  con- 
trite sense  of  her  own  ingratitude  for  all  the  blessings  she 
enjoyed,  and  feel  sorely  ashamed  of  her  petulant  discon- 
tent, however  reluctant  she  might  be  to  own  it.  I  don't 
think  people  with  natures  like  Milly  Scarlett's  can  ever  be 
really  happy  or  contented ;  they  want  too  much — there  is 
no  via  media  about  them.  They  want  perpetual  extremes 


BY  THE  FIRELIGHT.  141 

— life  must  be  all  rose-color,  skies  one  serene  unchanging 
azure,  the  tiniest  cloud  casts  a  dark  shadow  upon  them ;  a 
trifling  annoyance,  that  less  sensitive  minds  would  scarcely 
acknowledge  the  presence  of,  is  a  bitterness  to  them. 
They  want  always  to  be  loved,  always  to  be  young,  always 
to  be  happy,  always  to  be  in  the  vortex  of  pleasurable  ex- 
citement ;  and  so,  because  they  have  such  large  powers 
of  appreciation,  and  such  large  desires,  they  pass  uncon- 
sciously by  those  small  pleasures  that  make  up  the  sum  of 
ordinary  folk's  happiness,  and  are  nearly  always  unhappy 
in  straining  after  those  great  gifts  that  the  most  fortunate 
mortals  only  attain  to  twice  or  three  times  in  a  lifetime. 

But  if  Milly  Scarlett  was  not  in  reality  a  very  happy  or 
contented  woman,  she  kept  the  fox  well  concealed,  for 
her  friends  and  acquaintances,  with  one  or  two  exceptions, 
thought  her  a  most  enviable  person.  She  was  always 
bright  and  smiling,  always  had  a  little  court  about  her, 
lived  in  a  charming  house,  and  seemed  to  possess  every 
advantage  that  a  woman  not  too  unreasonable  could  desire. 
And,  on  the  whole,  she  was  decidedly  a  favorite,  especially 
with  men.  Charming  was  the  word  they  invariably  applied 
to  her,  if  they  liked  her  at  all.  And  I  think  the  great 
secret  of  her  pleasing  powers  was  her  adaptablity — the 
readiness  with  which  she  entered  into  all  that  pleased 
and  interested  those  who  cared  for  her — her  possession 
of  the  intuitive  sympathy  that  is  the  essence  of  tact,  but 
is  also  far  more  than  tact. 

It  has  often  struck  me  that  the  portrait  of  ill-fated 
Julie  de  1'Espinasse,  drawn  of  her,  at  her  own  request,  by 
her  faithful  D'Alembert,  might  have  served  equally  well 
for  Milly  Scarlett — the  greater  part  of  it,  at  least : 

"  You  have  a  noble  and  graceful  carriage,  your  face  is 
full  of  soul  and  character.  You  please  by  your  style,  by 
your  exquisite  taste,  and  by  the  tact  you  have  in  saying 


142  DOLORES. 

what  will  be  most  agreeable  to  every  one.  You  are  frank 
by  nature,  and  discreet  by  reflection.  You  abhor  malice 
and  folly;  you  are  not  envious.  Every  one  seems  to  you 
equally  to  be  pitied,  and  you  would  not  change  your  fate 
for  that  of  any  living  being.  You  are  very  good-natured, 
but  you  have  both  temper  and  dryness.  These  latter  de- 
fects are  not  natural  to  you,  but  have  grown  upon  you 
from  being  wounded  and  crossed  in  your  tastes  and  feel- 
ings. In  trying  to  be  hard  to  yourself,  to  crush  your 
own  nature,  you  have  become  hard  towards  those  who 
love  you.  I  do  not  know  any  one  who  pleases  so  gen- 
erally as  you,  nor  any  one  who  is  more  sensible  of  her 
power.  You  do  not  refuse  even  to  make  the  first  advance, 
when  the  person  you  wish  to  please  does  not  take  the 
initiative ;  on  this  point  you  sacrifice  your  pride  to  your 
self-love.  I  must  confess,  too,  that  you  are  not  quite  so 
difficult  to  please  as  I  think  you  ought  to  be ;  the  delicacy 
and  nicety  of  your  tact  ought  to  make  you  more  particular 
in  the  choice  of  your  friends.  The  desire  of  having  a 
court  about  you  makes  you  too  complaisant;  and  you 
don't  even  turn  your  back  upon  a  bore,  provided  he 
is  very  devoted  to  you.  One  quality  you  aie  exacting 
about,  even  to  excess — it  is  your  extreme  sensitiveness  on 
the  subject  of  good  style  and  manner.  The  want  of  these 
is  scarcely  atoned  for,  in  your  eyes,  by  the  most  tender 
devotion." 


MILLY.  143 

CHAPTER   XV. 

MILLY. 

MILLY  could  not  remember  her  mother.  She  had  lived 
childhood  and  girlhood  through  with  her  father,  and  they 
were  devoted  to  each  other.  The  sight  of  the  most  doting 
mother  had  never  made  her  feel  the  want  of  one.  What 
greater,  tenderer,  more  perfect  love  could  any  one  have 
given  her  than  this  father,  to  whom  she  was  all  in  all, 
who  was  all  in  all  to  her?  She  had  grown  up  free,  un- 
controlled, uncontradicted.  She  had  an  impulsive,  pas- 
sionate nature,  was  bright,  vivacious,  and  a  favorite  with 
most  people,  an  idol  with  her  father  and  the  two  old 
servants. 

Milly  had  had  great  ideas  from  her  very  childhood. 
She  thought  a  good  deal  of  fine  horses,  handsome  carriages, 
and  elegant  attire.  She  chafed  a  little  at  times  because 
the  glory  of  the  house  was  departed,  and  money  failed  to 
keep  up  the  old  place  as  in  the  former  days ;  but  she  would 
rather  have  cut  her  tongue  out  than  bewail  it  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  father,  since  it  was  to  the  extravagance  of  his 
youth  their  present  impoverished  condition  was  due.  Her 
girlhood  had  been  happy  enough.  She  was  clever,  and 
her  father  had  taken  care  she  should  be  thoroughly  well 
educated,  whatever  else  money  lacked  for.  But  her  edu- 
cation had  been  no  school  routine.  He  had  wandered 
about  with  her  to  pleasant  foreign  towns,  where  she  picked 
up  languages  and  had  lessons  in  music  and  singing  from 
first-rate  masters. 

"  I  don't  think  my  little  girl  will  ever  be  a  great  beauty 


I44  DOLORES. 

— not  great  enough  to  dazzle  the  world,"  he  used  to  say, 
fondly  stroking  her  dark  locks, — "  in  spite  of  those  eyes : 
so  we  must  give  her  something  to  put  her  on  a  level  with 
the  empty-headed  beauties  against  the  time  when  she'll 
want  a  recommendation.  Poor  little  girl !  she  won't  have 
any  fortune — we  must  give  her  something." 

Milly  often  cried  bitterly  in  secret  because  she  was  not 
a  beauty ;  indeed,  she  made  up  her  mind  that  she  was 
positively  ugly — and  this  little  girl  had  aspirations  about 
love  and  power  as  big  as  any  empress  of  the  world  ever 
entertained.  But  at  seventeen  she  was  a  great  deal  better- 
looking  than  any  one  expected  she  would  be,  and  made 
an  extremely  favorable  debut  in  the  world  of  fashion,  under 
the  auspices  of  her  aunt.  How  proud  and  glad  her  father 
was !  Will  Milly  ever  forget,  to  her  dying  day,  how  the 
old  man  kissed  and  blessed  her,  with  glad  tears  in  his 
eyes,  when  they  returned  together  from  her  first  ball ! 

"  I  think  my  little  girl  will  be  able  to  hold  up  her  head 
with  the  best  of  them,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  quivering  with 
pride  and  gladness ;  and  not  one  of  the  thousand  flatteries 
she  has  received  since  ever  fell  more  sweetly  on  Milly's 
ear. 

She  married  very  soon — a  man  rich,  good-looking,  de- 
voted to  her.  I  don't  think  he  was  a  bit  like  the  hero  of 
her  dreams — certainly  he  was  not  clever.  Some  men  said 
he  was  a  good  fellow ;  others  agreed  with  Mr.  Vivian  in 
calling  him  "the  biggest  fool  out!"  Big  he  was,  florid 
and  well-looking,  of  the  country  gentleman  type,  fond  of 
sport,  devoted  to  horses  and  dogs — the  sort  of  man  to 
whom  a  wife  is 

"  Something  better  than  his  dog, 
A  little  dearer  than  his  horse." 

If  Milly  chose  to  spend  her  passionate  young  heart  on 


MILLY.  145 

loving  such  a  man,  the  end  was  sure  to  be  disappointment. 
He  could  no  more  understand  her  high  flights,  as  he  called 
them,  than  the  dead  languages ;  nor  could  he  sympathize 
with  her  ardent  nature.  He  was  a  fine  animal,  and  she 
had  to  make  the  best  of  him ;  and  there  were  many  things 
that  made  it  a  tolerably  easy  task.  She  delighted  in  riding 
and  driving,  and  she  might  have  the  handsomest  horses 
money  could  buy ;  she  had  the  real  woman's  love  of  "  silk 
attire,"  and  she  might  spend  what  money  she  liked  on 
dress  or  anything  else — it  gratified  him  to  show  her  off, 
for  he  was  proud  of  her ;  and  so  she  was  obliged  to  satisfy 
the  hunger  of  her  poor  little  heart  with  the  gilded  husks. 
She  would  have  liked  to  adore  and  worship  her  golden 
calf,  but  he  would  not  let  her — it  irked  him ;  she  expected 
him  to  be  always  making  love  to  and  petting  her,  and  he 
had  as  much  idea  of  doing  it  as  the  aforesaid  golden  calf 
would  have  of  returning  its  worshiper's  adoration. 

And  then — ah,  bitter,  irreparable  loss  ! — her  father 
died,  and  she  felt  so  lonely  when  the  old  man  was  gone — 
that  beloved  one  who  had  so  often  poured  oil  upon  the 
troubled  waters.  She  wanted  something  to  cling  to,  and 
all  her  love  for  her  husband  came  rushing  tenfold  back 
again.  He  was  sorry  for  her,  and  tried  to  be  kind  and 
sympathetic,  but  he  was  one  of  those  people  who  have 
not  the  remotest  conception  of  what  sympathy  means, 
who  with  their  greatest  effort  could  not  give  any  human 
being  so  much  comfort  as  the  faithful  hound  who  thrusts 
his  nose  into  your  hand  and  looks  up  at  you  with  honest 
sorrowful  eyes. 

Then  he  broke  his  neck  out  hunting,  and  if  he  had 
been  all  her  ardent  temperament  desired,  Milly  could  not 
have  grieved  for  him  more.  After  the  manner  of  her 
sex,  she  endowed  him  with  more  than  human  virtues; 
everything  that  had  ever  angered  her  in  him  she  banished 
K  13 


146  DOLORES. 

religiously  from  her  mind ;  all  that  was  kind,  good,  lov- 
ing of  him  in  the  old  time  came  back,  and  she  longed 
for  him  with  an  intense,  weary  longing,  that  blanched 
her  face  and  dimmed  her  eyes  with  bitter  tears. 

All  this  until  one  day — one  day,  as  she  sat  alone  in  hei 
room,  thinking  always  of  that  one  thing,  saying  to  herself 
that  her  life  was  done,  that  never  in  all  the  years  to 
come,  however  long,  however  weary,  would  she  take 
comfort  or  pleasure,  the  thought  came  to  her  that  she 
would  look  over  his  desk,  where  perhaps  she  might  find 
something  to  bring  back  the  dear  one  more  fully  to  her 
memory.  With  a  heavy  heart  she  crossed  the  hall  into 
the  room  that  had  been  his,  where  his  whips  and  guns  and 
fishing-tackle  were  left  by  her  orders  just  as  when  he  was 
alive — where  the  antlers  and  the  foxes'  brushes,  the  stuffed 
birds  and  gigantic  fish,  his  much-prized  trophies,  re- 
minded her  at  every  step  of  him.  Oh,  only  to  hear  the 
loud,  brisk  voice  once  more — only  to  see  the  big  frame, 
of  whose  strength  she  had  been  so  proud  !  But  there 
came  no  answer,  save  the  chill  empty  echo  in  her  heart, 
"  Never  more  !"  She  sat  down  and  sobbed  aloud,  griev- 
ously ;  the  pain  seemed  greater  than  she  could  bear. 

At  last  she  went  to  his  desk,  that  stood  in  one  corner 
of  the  room,  and  sat  down  before  it.  She  found  a  pic- 
ture of  herself,  a  bundle  of  her  letters,  a  few  bills.  Pres- 
ently she  turned  over  the  blotting-book ;  in  it  was  a  letter 
in  a  woman's  hand,  and  a  sheet  of  paper  with  a  few  words 
in  his  writing.  She  sat  staring  blankly  at  it,  put  it  down 
once,  then  took  it  up  again.  It  was  dated  the  day  of  his 
death.  Oh,  God  !  and  she  had  believed  that,  if  his  was 
not  a  passionate  nature,  he  had  at  least  given  her  all  the 
love  he  had  to  give — she  had  never  doubted  that  he  was 
faithful  to  her ! 

When  the  years  had  passed,  she  could  say  to  herself 


MILL  Y.  147 

that  it  was  for  the  best  she  had  discovered  this ;  it  was 
a  sharp  remedy,  perhaps,  but  it  was  better  to  be  unde- 
ceived than  to  go  on  sorrowing  so  bitterly  after  a  man 
who  had  not  been  worthy  of  her.  Her  friends  wondered 
sometimes  why  they  could  never  bring  her  to  talk  of  the 
husband  whom  she  had  seemed  to  love  so  passionately  in 
his  lifetime. 

As  she  sits  to-night  over  her  fire,  after  Mrs.  Craven  has 
left  her,  she  thinks  over  this  past  time — of  her  husband, 
and  of  the  men  who  have  loved  her.  Perhaps  she  has 
been  cruel  sometimes;  perhaps  she  has  revenged  the 
wrongs  done  by  the  guilty  upon  the  innocent ;  perhaps 
she  has  taken  little  heed  of  men's  feelings  who,  after  all, 
were  sincere  and  honest  in  their  love  for  her.  Well,  ah 
that  is  over  now ;  henceforth  she  will  keep  to  one  man 
only ;  she  will  never  have  a  thought  save  for  him — oh, 
how  she  will  love  him ! — how  she  loves  him  already ! 
Pray  God  he  may  be  good  to  her !  It  is  barely  three 
weeks  since  she  first  saw  him,  and  her  whole  life  seems 
bound  up  in  him.  From  the  moment  that  he  entered  the 
box  in  Paris,  she  loved  his  handsome  debonnaire  face; 
she  felt  to  him  that  intense  attraction  that  she  had  had 
for  his  brother.  That  very  night  she  knew,  whatever  she 
might  hear  of  him,  she  would  marry  him,  if  he  asked 
her — if  he  were  penniless,  gambler,  spendthrift,  what- 
ever he  might  be.  With  every  one  else  she  has  always 
been  confident  of  herself;  she  has  known  exactly  her 
own  value,  and  the  value  set  on  her  by  others ;  with 
Adrian,  she  is  diffident,  dissatisfied  with  herself,  so  eager 
to  please  him  that  she  fears  to  defeat  her  wish  by  being 
over-anxious.  And  this  is  the  woman  who  has  been  called 
hundreds  of  times  cold,  passionless,  heartless. 

A  few  weeks  later,  Captain  Charteris  is  calling  at  a  house 
in  May  Fair — not  Mrs.  Scarlett's.  The  lady  who  lives 


148  DOLORES, 

here  is  a  very  old  friend  of  Adrian's,  has  petted  him  since 
he  was  a  boy  at  Eton,  listened  to  all  his  confidences, 
given  him  advice,  generally  good,  from  a  worldly  point  of 
view.  She  is  a  thorough  woman  of  the  world,  understands 
men  as  well  as  it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  do,  never 
bores  them,  never  expects  too  much  from  them,  is  always 
glad  to  see  them,  and  never  reproaches  them  if  they  seem 
occasionally  to  forget  her  existence  for  a  time.  She  knows 
they  will  come  back.  Men  rarely  desert  a  house  long 
where  the  hostess  is  amusing,  the  dinners  perfect,  the  cel- 
lar unexceptionable,  and  they  may  smoke  good  cigars  ad 
libitum.  She  is  considerably  past  her  jeunesse,  but  looks 
extremely  well ;  a  judicious  arrangement  of  lights  and 
rose-colored  blinds  will  do  a  great  deal  for  any  one  who 
studies  them,  and  she  always  wears  black. 

Perhaps  of  all  the  men  who  come  to  her  house,  she 
cares  the  most  for  Adrian.  She  knows  him  exactly  for 
what  he  is,  but  that  knowledge  does  not  make  it  one  whit 
less  pleasant  to  her  to  look  at  his  handsome  face  and  be 
caressed  by  his  charming  manner.  This  is  what  she  would 
say  of  him,  but  only  to  herself  in  the  strictest  confidence. 
He  has  one  idea  in  the  world — himself! — how  he  shall 
dress,  and  feed,  and  clothe  his  handsome  person;  he  suc- 
ceeds perfectly.  He  is  not  conceited  ;  it  is  too  self-evi^ 
dent  that  he  is  exceptionally  good-looking ;  he  knows 
that  he  is  pleasing  to  the  eyes  of  almost  every  woman  he 
meets,  therefore  he  need  take  no  trouble  to  amuse  or  please 
them  farther  than  by  a  smile,  a  caressing  glance,  a  few 
whispered  words.  Only  let  them  alone,  they  will  lionize, 
adore,  make  love  to  him,  and  save  him  all  the  trouble. 
He  cares  very  little  really  about  women ;  as  long  as  he 
can  smoke  good  cigars,  drink  champagne  for  his  dinner 
every  day,  and  sit  up  playing  cards  till  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  he  can  dispense  with  the  women,  except  for 


MILLY. 


149 


vanity  Good-natured  enough,  if  it  does  not  put  him  out 
of  the  way ;  amusing,  if  he  chooses  to  take  the  trouble. 
If  there  is  a  man  in  the  world  calculated  to  make  a  woman 
who  loves  him  wretched,  that  man  is  Adrian  Charteris. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  this  age,"  he  says,  coming  into 
the  room,  and  greeting  her  very  warmly.  "  You're  look- 
ing awfully  well !  I  suppose  you've  heard  the  news?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered.     "Shall  I  congratulate  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I  think  it's  rather  a  good 
thing,  but  I  want  to  hear  your  opinion." 

"Will  you  break  it  off  if  I  don't  approve?"  she  asks, 
laughingly. 

"Of  course,  like  a  shot !" 

"  Then  I'm  afraid  you're  not  very  desperately  in  love." 

"  Desperately  !  Well,  I  never  was  desperately  anything 
in  my  life — except  unhappy  about  you  once"  (with  laugh- 
ing eyes).  "Oh,  I  like  her  tremendously  !  By  the  way, 
have  you  ever  met  her?" 

"  I  don't  think  so ;  tell  me  all  about  her." 

"Well,  she  isn't  a  beauty  exactly,  but  quite  good-look- 
ing enough  for  anything;  wonderfully  good  eyes  and 
hair — all  her  own." 

"  Of  course,"  she  says,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  smile. 

"  No  mistake  about  it.  I've  seen  it  down.  Knows 
how  to  dress ;  looks  uncommon  well  upon  a  horse,  neat 
foot,  and  makes  the  most  of  it." 

"Is  she  clever?" 

"Oh,  yes,  knows  everything,  and  isn't  always  ramming 
it  down  your  throat,  thank  heaven!" 

"And  rich,  I  hear." 

"Oh,  the  money's  all  right,  or  it  wouldn't  havt  suited 
a  poor  fellow  like  me.  Three  thousand  a  year.1* 

"  My  dear  boy,  with  your  face  you  ought  to  have  mar- 
ried twenty."  i 


150  DOLORES. 

"  Yei ;  but  it's  difficult  to  get  a  nice  woman  with  twenty 
thousand  a  year,  and  this  one  is  decidedly  nice." 

"Well,  then,  it  is  evident  you  have  every  reason  for 
congratulation.  Accept  mine,"  and  she  puts  her  hand 
into  his. 

Adrian  takes  and  kisses  it  gracefully. 

"But  all  the  same,  you  know,  matrimony's  an  awful 
business.  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  to  it  a  bit,  yet." 

" Do  you  remember  what  you  used  to  say  about  it?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I  said  they  ought  to  write  that  quotation 
from  Dante's  'Inferno'  over  the  church  doors:  ' Lasciate 
ogni  speranza  voi  cti entrate ?  and,  by  George,  I'm  not  at 
all  sure  that  I've  changed  my  opinion.  I  daren't  think 
about  it,  that's  the  fact.  Fancy  having  to  go  to  bed  at 
eleven  o'clock !  Why,  how  the  deuce  should  I  be  able  to 
lie  in  bed  all  the  morning  if  I  did  that  ? — and  how  the 
deuce  should  I  get  through  the  day  if  I  didn't  sleep 
through  the  first  part  of  it?  Then  perhaps  she'll  object 
to  my  smoking  all  over  the  house.  Why,  I  should  be  the 
most  miserable  dog  out  without  my  cigar.  I  hope  to 
goodness  she  won't  mind  my  going  to  the  club  of  an 
evening.  I  should  think  she'd  be  sensible,  and  give  me 
three  nights  a  week,  if  I'm  pretty  attentive  the  other 
four." 

"Very  likely.  She  has  been  married  once,  and  won't 
expect  as  much  from  a  husband  as  a  girl  would." 

"A  girl!  Faugh!  my  dear  Henrietta,  I  wouldn't 
marry  a  girl  with  fifty  thousand  a  year.  Not  my  line. 
They  ought  to  be  kept  in  the  schoolroom  till  they're 
married." 

"Adrian!" 

"Well,  ma  belle!" 

"  I  heard  something  about  your  brother  having  been  in 
love  with  Mrs.  Scarlett — is  it  true?" 


MILLY.  151 

"Poor  old  Guy!"  he  utters,  lazily,  smiling  the  smile 
that  makes  him  so  good  to  look  at.  "I'm  afraid  there's 
something  in  it.  He  went  off  like  a  lunatic,  and  has 
never  been  heard  of  since.  I  couldn't  get  it  out  of 
Milly,  though  I  tried.  Fancy  cutting  out  your  elder 
brother  with  a  title  and  all  those  thousands  a  year,  by 
George !  I  never  heard  of  his  being  downright  spoony 
on  a  woman  before.  There  was  something  very  queer 
about  it,  too.  When  I  got  to  Paris,  of  course  I  made 
straight  for  his  room,  and,  to  my  utter  astonishment, 
found  an  awfully  pretty  little  girl  there,  quite  a  child. 
She  jumps  up  and  rushes  to  me,  then,  finding  her  mistake, 
stands  staring  and  trembling  all  over;  blushes  crimson, 
and  turns  her  back  upon  me.  I  naturally  asked  if  I  could 
be  of  any  use  to  her  in  Guy's  absence,  but  she  seemed  in 
a  horrible  fright,  and  said,  'No,  thank  you,'  to  everything 
— in  fact,  that's  all  I  got  out  of  her.  Then  his  man  comes 
rushing  in,  and  beckons  me  out,  but  not  a  word  can  I  get 
out  of  him  either.  Then  Guy,  in  frantic  haste,  seeming 
in  a  tremendous  way  about  something,  bullies  me  for  hav- 
ing spoken  to  the  girl,  and  finally  disappears  with  her  for 
three  days.  The  plot  thickens.  However,  I  naturally 
take  advantage  of  the  good  thing  Providence  has  thrown 
in  my  way — make  love  to  the  charrring  widow,  she 
reciprocates,  and  here  I  am." 

"A  strange  story,"  says  his  companion,  thoughtfully. 
"Some  little  school-girl,  I  suppose,  who  had  fallen  in 
love  with  him  and  run  away  from  school  or  home." 

"Very  possibly — can't  say.  She  was  sweetly  pretty, 
/shouldn't  have  taken  her  back  home,  which  I  expect  is 
what  he  did.  But  I  must  be  off.  I  have  to  take  my 
beloved  one  to  Hurlingham,  and  she  doesn't  like  to  be 
kept  waiting.  I  must  educate  her  to  my  unpunctual 
habits.  I'm  half  an  hour  late  now." 


'52 


DOLORES. 


"Perhaps  she  will  have  gone  without  you — or  with 
some  one  else." 

Adrian's  only  reply  was  a  smile;  but  a  smile  that 
expressed  more  than  words. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands. 

"  God  bless  you !"  she  says,  in  a  voice  that  trembles  a 
very  little.  "  I  suppose  you  won't  quite  forget  me  when 
you  are  married — you'll  find  your  way  here  after  the  first 
six  months?" 

"  Six  months  !"  he  answers,  gayly.  "  My  lune  de  miel 
will  be  a  very  short  one,  I  can  tell  you ;  and  when  that  is 
over,  I  dare  say  you  will  have  a  great  deal  more  of  my 
company  than  you  will  care  for.  I  shall  not  ask  you  to 
call  on  Milly.  I  don't  want  you  to  know  each  other." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  you'd  be  sure  to  hate  each  other — you're  too 
much  in  the  same  genre.  And  besides,  if  later  on  I  want 
to  abuse  her  to  you  (men  always  do  abuse  their  wives,  I 
believe),  I  shall  have  your  sympathizing  and  partial  ear, 
because  you'll  only  hear  one  side.  Adieu,  ma  chere," 
kissing  her  hand. 

When  he  is  gone,  she  presses  her  lips  on  the  spot  where 
he  has  kissed  it. 

"And  that  is  the  sort  of  man  women  with  imagination 
and  passion  break  their  hearts  about,"  she  murmurs.  "  I 
dare  say  she  knows  quite  well  what  he  is.  At  all  events, 
I  do ;  and  if  I  could  I  would  have  married  him,  and  he 
would  have  been  charming  to  every  woman  but  me.  I 
can't  help  being  sorry  for  her;  but  I  hate  her." 

Five  minutes  later  a  barouche  rolls  past  the  window. 
An  elderly  and  a  young  lady  are  in  it.  Adrian  is  bend- 
ing forward  to  button  Milly's  glove,  Milly  radiant  and 
charming.  Henrietta  sees  them.  "  I  hate  her !"  she  mur- 
murs. This  time  she  does  not  say,  "  I  am  sorry  for  her." 


IN  ST.  OUEN.  153 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

IN   ST.    OUEN. 

AND  all  this  time  Dolores  was  half  breaking  her  heart 
up  in  the  little  white  house  that  overlooked  one  of  the 
fairest  scenes  in  Normandy.  She  seemed  to  be  quite 
changed  from  the  shallow,  thoughtless  child  we  knew  her 
first ;  this  strange  passion  and  bitter  disappointment  had 
altered  her  nature.  If  things  had  gone  smoothly,  no 
doubt  she  would  have  remained  as  frivolous  and  super- 
ficial as  when  we  first  saw  her ;  but  this  grief,  this  constant 
dull  pain,  and  waiting  and  longing  for  what  would  never 
come,  had  given  a  depth  to  her  feelings  that  was  far  from 
natural  to  a  character  like  hers.  But  it  was  sad  to  see 
the  change — to  see  her  transformed  from  the  blithe, 
thoughtless  child,  romping  with  her  cat  and  dog,  eager 
after  flowers  and  sweetmeats  and  gay  shops,  to  the  sad, 
listless  girl,  who  noticed  so  little,  and  seemed  always 
brooding  over  a  secret  sorrow.  She  would  sit  for  hours, 
her  hands  lying  idle  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  far  away  over  the 
distant  green  hills,  while  the  fresh,  soft  air,  laden  with  all 
the  sweet  scent  of  summer  flowers,  kissed  her  face ;  and 
yet  she  saw  nothing — nothing  outward  at  least — only  the 
kind,  handsome  face  of  the  man  who  filled  her  every 
thought. 

Marcelline  bustled  about,  and  tried  to  be  very  brisk  and 
cheerful,  but  her  heart  ached  to  see  the  child  so  silent  and 
forlorn. 

"  Tiens,  petite,"  she  would  say,  quite  sharply;   "it  is 
not  like  that  one  gets  through  life — always  moping  and 
c* 


'54 


DOLORES. 


fretting.  There  are  more  men  in  the  world  than  one. 
Bah  !  If  he  did  not  think  of  me,  I  should  be  too  proud 
to  break  my  heart  about  him.  I  would  rather  dress  St. 
Catherine's  hair  than  run  after  a  man  who  did  not  care 
for  me." 

So  the  kind  soul  thought  to  stimulate  the  child's  pride 
into  forgetting  her  sorrow. 

"  Leave  me,"  answered  Dolores,  the  color  flushing  into 
her  cheeks.  "  If  I  am  sad,  I  do  not  ask  consolation  or 
pity  from  you." 

"Do  not  be  angry  with  poor  Marcelline, petite  cherie  ; 
she  only  wants  to  see  you  smile  again.  Come  down  to  the 
market  to-day,  and  we  will  go  on  the  Quai  and  see  the  fine 
young  soldiers. ' ' 

"  I  care  not  for  the  soldiers — I  hate  Frenchmen  ! — and 
the  market  is  stupid.  But  I  will  go  to  the  church,  and  you 
can  leave  me  there  until  you  return." 

"  The  church,  the  church  ! — always  the  church !  Petite, 
if  you  were  of  our  religion,  the  good  priests  would  soon 
make  a  religieuse  of  you.  Ah  !  what  a  pretty  little  sister, 
with  the  great  black  hood,  and  the  long,  ugly  dress  !" 

"I  wish  I  was  one,"  replied  Dolores. 

"La,  la!"  cried  Marcelline.  "Wait  until  you  have 
got  over  your  moping  fit,  and  some  fine  young  fellow 
comes  along  and  wants  to  marry  you,  and  we  shall  see 
then  whether  you  are  still  so  eager  to  become  a  religieuse, 
No,  no,  no,  my  child ;  leave  that  to  the  old  and  ugly  ones, 
who  have  no  pretty  faces,  and  no  dots  to  get  husbands  for 
them." 

"I  shall  never  marry,"  cried  Dolores,  indignantly. 

"Ah!  never  is  a  long  time,  cherie.  We  shall  see,  we 
shall  see.  Go  and  put  on  your  hat,  if  you  will  really  go 
to  the  church,  while  I  run  and  see  that  Jeanneton  does  not 
spoil  the  gouter. ' ' 


IN  ST.  OUEN.  155 

And  she  went  off  into  the  kitchen,  where  she  found 
Jeanneton  ruminating  with  a  saucepan  in  her  hand. 

"  Tiens  /"  she  called  out,  in  her  brisk  voice,  that  made 
the  old  woman  jump,  "it  is  not  by  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  kitchen  and  looking  at  the  things  that  the  work 
advances." 

"  Peste  /"  retorted  her  factotum,  "  thou  wouldst  have 
done  well,  thou,  to  drive  the  poor  negroes ;  it's  always  go 
on,  go  on,  go  on — one  must  not  stop  a  moment  to  get  up 
again  if  one  fell.  I  was  thinking " 

"Ah,  it's  bad  to  think,"  said  Marcelline,  sarcastically. 
"  People  who  have  to  earn  their  bread  should  never  waste 
their  time  like  that.  It's  only  fine  ladies  and  savants 
who  have  to  do  with  that  foolishness." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  persisted  Jeanneton,  "  that  it's  very 
strange  what  has  come  to  Mam'selle  all  this  summer." 

"Ah,  if  that  was  all  that  thinking  did  for  thee  1" 
answered  Marcelline,  contemptuously. 

"  But  other  times  she  went  about  singing  like  a  bird ; 
even  I  could  hear  her,  and  she  was  always  in  and  out  of 
the  kitchen  wanting  this  and  that,  and  laughing  at  every- 
thing, like  a  giddy  one.  Now  she  is  silent  and  sad.  I 
see  her  from  the  window  sitting  out  on  the  grass  under  the 
apple-trees,  looking  as  if  she  saw  something  a  long  way  off, 
and  not  even  taking  notice  of  poor  Fidelio,  who  walks 
on  his  hind  legs  to  please  her." 

"Thou  seest  a  great  deal,  for  thou  seest  what  is  not," 
returned  Marcelline,  angrily.  "  One  cannot  always  re- 
main a  child  ;  if  Mademoiselle  is  a  little  triste  sometimes, 
the  saints  know  it  is  dull  enough." 

"The  cure's  brother  has  not  been  a  long  time,"  said 
Jeanneton,  nodding  her  head  shrewdly. 

"  Oh,  it  is  that  which  thou  seest  when  thou  look'st  into 
the  saucepans  !"  said  Marcelline,  irately.  "  Do  thy  work, 


156  DOLORES; 

my  girl,  and  leave  thinking  to  thy  betters."  And  she 
brisked  off,  in  not  the  best  humor  in  the  world. 

A  few  minutes  later,  she  and  Dolores  came  out  of  the 
gate  together.  There  was  no  laughing  and  running  on 
before  now,  as  in  the  olden  times,  no  chiding  of  Mar- 
cel'ine  for  her  fatness  and  slowness ;  to-day  the  faithful 
servant  would  have  given  anything  to  see  the  little  child- 
ish tricks  and  ways  that  had  tormented  her  formerly. 

"Sans  adieu,  mademoiselle,"  she  said,  cheerfully,  ag 
the  girl  went  in  at  the  green  baize  door  of  the  church, 
and  Dolores  just  nodded  her  head  in  response. 

"What  does  she  do  all  that  long  time  by  herself*?" 
Marcelline  wondered.  Then  she  shook  her  head,  and 
went  off  down  the  hill  to  the  market-place. 

Dolores,  left  to  herself,  wandered  about  up  and  down 
the  long  aisles.  The  time  was  past  when  she  used  to  skip 
to  and  fro,  with  small  meed  of  reverence,  and  shiver  at 
the  gloom  of  the  old  Norman  church.  She  did  not  run 
curiously  now  and  peer  into  the  marble  basin,  to  see  the 
reflection  of  the  roof  and  the  great  pillars,  nor  strain  her 
eyes  to  the  bright-colored  windows,  but  walked  along 
listlessly,  sadly,  feeling  that  the  solemnity  and  mournful- 
ness  of  the  place  were  sympathetic  to  her  sadness.  Then 
she  sat  down  in  one  of  the  chairs,  and  began  to  think 
about  the  old  subject — Guy. 

"  Why  does  he  not  write  to  me?"  she  said.  "Three 
months,  and  he  has  only  written  me  that  one  little  letter 
with  the  locket — all  that  I  have  of  him  is  that  and  the 
picture.  Ah,  it  is  beautiful,  that  picture.  If  I  had  been 
really  like  that,  he  must  have  loved  me ;  perhaps  at  first 
he  thought  I  was,  and  then  afterwards  he  was  disappointed. 
Where  is  he  now,  I  wonder  ?  He  has  quite  forgotten  me 
in  the  midst  of  the  great  people  and  the  beautiful  ladies 
he  must  see  at  home  in  London.  Does  he  love  one  of 


IN  ST.  OUEN. 


'57 


them?  Oh,  it  would  break  my  heart  to  believe  that — 
that  he  gave  to  some  one  else  what  he  refused  to  me! 
How  tired  I  am  of  my  life  !  Will  it  always,  always  go  on 
like  this?  And  I  am  so  young,  so  young,  and  I  have 
so  many  years  to  drag  out  before  I  can  hope  to  die!" 
Then  the  bitter  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

Some  one  was  watching  her,  standing  in  the  shade  of 
one  of  the  great  pillars,  and  feeling  very  pitiful  of  her 
sorrow.  It  was  a  man,  apparently  some  forty  years  of 
age,  rather  tall,  and  slightly  made,  with  a  face  bronzed  by 
exposure,  and  the  kindest  expression  in  it  that  could  be 
imagined.  He  had  gray  eyes,  set  very,  very  deep  in  his 
head ;  his  hair,  that  had  been  dark,  was  beginning  to  be 
sprinkled  with  white ;  the  mouth  was  finely  cut,  and  had 
a  grave,  tender  expression.  He  stood  a  long,  long  time 
watching  Dolores,  thinking  how  young  and  fair  she  was, 
and  wondering  what  could  make  such  a  mere  child  so 
sorrowful.  She  was  not  dressed  in  black,  or  he  might 
have  thought  her  crying  bitterly  after  some  one  dear  to 
her  who  had  died,  and  her  grief  seemed  too  deep  and 
silent  to  be  caused  by  any  mere  childish  mortification. 

"  Poor  child  !  poor  child  !"  he  said  to  himself;  "  if  I 
could  only  say  or  do  something  to  comfort  her!"  But 
his  instinctive  delicacy  made  him  shrink  from  intruding 
on  her  grief. 

Then  presently,  after  a  long  while,  he  heard  footsteps 
approaching,  and  saw  a  comely,  middle-aged  woman,  in 
the  garb  of  a  servant,  advancing  towards  her. 

"Tiens,  che'rie,  viens  done  avec  ta  pauvre  Marcelline," 
he  heard  her  say ;  and  then  the  girl  rose  and  went  out, 
leaving  the  stranger  more  puzzled  than  before.  He  did 
not  attempt  to  follow  her,  but  remained  where  he  was, 
leaning  against  the  column,  as  if  lost  in  thought.  After 

14 


158  DOLORES. 

awhile  he  roused  himself,  like  one  who  wakes  up  from  a 
day-dream,  and,  leaving  St.  Ouen,  ascended  the  hill 
slowly,  till  he  came  to  one  of  the  white  campagnes  that 
dot  the  landscape  all  round.  Opening  the  gate,  he  went 
up  the  garden,  and  in  at  the  open  window,  where  a  lady 
was  sitting  writing.  He  just  greeted  her  and  she  smiled 
a  response ;  then  he  lighted  a  cigar,  and  sat  down  by  the 
glass  door.  Presently  the  lady  finished  what  she  was 
writing,  and  looked  at  him. 

"  You  seem  to  be  in  a  brown  study  !"  she  remarked. 

"I  am  puzzled,"  he  answered,  taking  the  cigar  from 
his  lips,  and  looking  thoughtfully  after  the  cloud  that 
issued  from  between  them. 

"What  has  puzzled  you?" 

"  I  went  into  St.  Ouen  this  morning,  and  there  was  a 
child  there  about  sixteen  or  seventeen,  with  such  a  lovely 
face,  but  such  a  sad  expression." 

"  Perhaps  she  had  lost  her  father  or  mother." 

"  No,  I  do  not  think  that,  because  she  wore  a  colored 
dress,  and  colored  ribbons  in  her  hat." 

"You  were  very  observant,  then,  for  a  man  who  pro- 
fesses not  to  know  anything  about  ladies'  dress." 

"  I  watched  her  until  she  was  so  engraven  on  my  mind, 
I  don't  think  I  should  ever  forget  her.  She  sat  a  long 
time  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  and  when  she 
looked  up  her  eyes — such  beautiful  blue  eyes  ! — were  full 
of  tears.  After  a  time  a  respectable-looking  servant  came 
in  and  spoke  to  her,  and  she  rose  and  went  away." 

"  Had  you  the  curiosity  to  follow  her?" 

"  No — it  did  not  occur  to  me.  Mary"  (this  after  a 
long  pause),  "what  could  have  ailed  the  child?" 

"I  do  not  know,  dear.  Perhaps  she  had  been  disap- 
pointed in  love." 

"  In  love  !"  he  repeated  slowly  after  her — "  in  love  1" 


IN  ST.   OUEN.  159 

And  then  he  went  on  smoking,  and  did  not  speak  again 
for  a  long  time. 

Mrs.  Power  had  not  failed  to  remark  the  change  in  Do- 
lores, although  the  child  strove  hard  to  hide  her  sorrow 
in  her  mother's  presence.  They  were  rarely  together. 
They  had  never  been  companions,  but  in  the  old  days 
Dolores  had  been  wont  to  sing  blithely  about  the  house, 
to  romp  with  her  dog,  to  slam  doors,  and  do  many  things 
that  jarred  on  her  mother's  sensitive,  over-strung  nerves. 
Now  she  went  as  quietly  about  the  house  as  a  little  ghost. 
She  did  not  laugh,  nor  speak  loud,  and  had  such  a  dreary, 
sorrowful  expression.  At  first,  on  her  return,  Mrs.  Power 
had  fancied  the  child  suffering  from  some  temporary  in- 
disposition, but  as  week  after  week  passed,  and  she  was 
still  silent,  preoccupied,  mournful-looking,  the  woman 
who  had  seen  and  suffered  so  much  of  the  world  in  the 
days  gone  by  began  to  have  terrible  forebodings.  She 
had  had  little  sympathy  with  her  child  so  long  as  she  was 
a  merry,  frivolous,  boisterous  girl ;  but  now,  overshad- 
owed by  the  remembrance  of  her  own  sorrows,  she 
trembled  to  think  that  she  had  brought  into  the  world  a 
creature  with  her  own  capacity  for  suffering.  But  what 
could  ail  the  child  ?  One  day  she  said,  with  unwonted 
tenderness,  "You  seem  unhappy,  my  dear."  The  child 
who  feared  more  than  loved  her  mother,  burst  into  tears 
and  ran  out  of  the  room,  saying,  "I  am  not  unhappy.' 
Then  the  mother  sighed  bitterly,  and  murmured,  "It  L 
my  fault.  I  have  been  cold  to  her,  and  have  never  sought, 
her  confidence;  she  will  not  tell  me  what  she  suffers.' 
Then,  painful  as  it  was  to  her  pride,  she  resolved  to  ques- 
tion Marcelline. 

It  was  a  summer  evening.  The  red,  mellow  sunlighf 
bathed  the  earth  in  a  flood  of  gold,  lighting  up  the  red 
roses,  the  passion-flowers  and  jasmine  that  climbed  tin 


j6o  DOLORES. 

wall,  and  the  big  white  lilies  growing  underneath.  It 
came  streaming  warm  through  the  branches  of  the  apple- 
trees  on  Dolores's  bright  hair,  across  her  little  white 
folded  hands,  and  the  knot  of  flowers  in  her  breast.  The 
picture  was  a  fair  one,  but  the  mother  who  gazed  on  it 
turned  away  with  a  bitter  sigh.  She  heard  Marcelline's 
brisk  patter  on  the  polished  stairs,  and,  opening  the  door, 
she  called  to  her. 

"Come  in  here,  Marcelline — I  want  to  speak  to  you." 
And  poor  Marcelline,  a  little  frightened,  obeyed  the  sum- 
mons. 

Mrs.  Power  pointed  through  the  open  window  to  where 
Dolores  sat. 

"What  ails  my  daughter?"  she  said,  looking  Marcel- 
lino  in  the  face  steadily. 

"Madame?"  stammered  Marcelline,  confused. 

"  You  ought  to  know.  She  is  quite  changed,  and  it  is 
all  since  I  went  away  to  England." 

"Madame  must  remember  that  it  is  triste  for  Made- 
moiselle; she  has  no  companions,  no  society." 

"  Neither  had  she  before,"  said  Mrs.  Power.  "  Come 
away  from  the  window ;  she  may  hear  our  voices.  Now, 
Marcelline,  tell  me  the  truth,  honestly  and  fairly.  There 
is  something  I  do  not  know  of.  If  there  has  been  any 
fault,  any  imprudence,  on  my  child's  part  or  yours,  I 
promise  to  overlook  it;  only  tell  me  the  truth." 

Marcelline  stood  for  some  moments  twisting  er  apron 
between  her  fingers,  the  color  deepening  in  her  brown 
cheeks. 

"Madame,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  cannot  say  there  is 
anything  to  tell.  Madame  surmises  for  herself  that  the 
chere  demoiselle  has  some  one  in  her  thoughts." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  murmured  Mrs.  Power  to  her- 
self. "  Oh,  how  wrong  I  have  been  to  leave  her  to  the 


IN  ST.  OUEN.  161 

care  of  servants !  As  if  she  would  not  grow  into  a 
woman  some  day,  to  suffer  too  !" 

Her  lips  quivered  as  she  looked  up  at  Marcelline's  em- 
barrassed face. 

"Marcelline,"  she  cried,  "I  implore  you  to  tell  me 
the  truth.  Am  I  not  her  mother?"  And  there  were 
tears  in  the  proud  eyes,  and  the  usually  cold  voice  had 
grown  pathetic. 

Marcelline  was  moved.  She  was  afraid  of  her  mistress 
— afraid  to  tell  the  truth ;  and  yet  she  said  to  herself,  "  It 
is  my  duty." 

"  Madame,"  she  began,  in  a  low,  nervous  voice,  "  you 
are  right.  I  would  have  kept  it  from  you ;  but  you  are 
her  mother — you  exact  it,  and  I  must  speak.  But,  ma- 
dame,  if  you  blame  me,  I  entreat  you  not  to  show  anger 
to  the  little  one.  Poor  heart,  it  is  already  so  sad  !" 

"I  will  not  speak  of  it  to  her,  whatever  it  may  be." 

"  Then,  madame,  I  will  tell  you  all.  A  young  English 
gentleman  saw  her  standing  in  the  garden  picking  flowers 
from  the  apple-trees,  and  he  desired  to  paint  her.  He  was 
quite  a  grand  seigneur — any  one  could  see  that ;  and  he 
looked  brave  and  honest.  If  it  had  been  a  Frenchman, 
he  should  not  have  come  inside  the  gate,  nor  so  much  as 
spoken  with  the  little  innocent ;  but  he  was  English,  and 
the  English  are  not  galant,  like  the  French.  He  told  me 
he  should  like  to  paint  Mademoiselle.  He  gave  Made- 
moiselle his  card,  by  which  she  knew  he  was  distinguished. 
The  child  was  anxious,  her  life  was  dull,  and  I  consented. 
Ah,  madame,  if  I  was  foolish,  imprudent,  wicked,  even, 
to  grant  their  prayers,  the  Holy  Virgin  knows  if  I  have 
suffered."  And  Marcelline  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Power  said  nothing.  She  was  looking  out  far 
away  into  the  garden,  and  presently  Marcelline  went  on : 

"  Monsieur  came  for  nearly  a  fortnight.     I  was  always 

L  14* 


1 62  DOLORES. 

present,  and  only  French  was  spoken.  They  talked  of 
Paris ;  he  told  her  of  the  gay  sights  and  the  fine  shops, 
and  of  the  Bois  and  the  picture-galleries.  And  they  spoke 
of  flowers  and  gardens,  and  of  England,  and  a  thousand  in- 
nocent subjects.  Then  I  began  to  see,  though  he  was  only 
kind  to  Mademoiselle  like  a  brother,  that  in  a  little  time 
she  occupied  herself  with  nothing  but  him.  She  was  rest- 
less, she  looked  at  the  clock  a  hundred  times  in  an  hour, 
and  watched  impatiently  his  coming.  It  was  then  I  began 
to  feel  sorry.  I  went  to  him,  I  made  an  excuse  to  leave 
her  at  home,  and  I  told  him  he  must  not  trifle  with  the 
little  one's  heart.  He  was  a  true  gentleman — he  did  not 
hesitate.  He  wrote  Mademoiselle  a  little  letter  of  adieu, 
and  went  away  without  seeing  her  even  once." 

Marcelline  paused. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Power,  bringing  her  eyes  from  the 
window,  and  fixing  them  on  Marcelline.  Her  face  was 
very  pale,  and  her  lips  worked  nervously. 

"  Madame,  the  terrible  part  is  to  come." 

"  Go  on."  The  voice  was  imperious,  but  straoge  and 
forced,  as  if  with  some  awful  dread. 

"When  she  had  his  letter,  she  wept  passionately — she 
refused  all  consolation.  For  three  days  she  went  about 
like  one  whose  heart  is  broken,  eating  nothing.  Then  the 
fourth  day,  when  I  was  gone  to  the  market,  she  slipped 
away  to  the  town,  and  went  after  him  to  Paris." 

The  mother  sat  as  if  she  had  been  turned  to  stone ;  her 
hands  were  tight  locked,  and  there  was  a  look  in  her  eye* 
that  terrified  Marcelline.  She  went  on  quickly : 

"  He  was  very  good  and  noble,  that  English  gentleman. 
He  knew  the  innocence  of  the  little  one's  heart,  he  would 
not  profit  by  her  simpleness.  He  brought  her  back  to  me 
at  once,  safe — quite  safe.  It  was  three  days  before  you 
returned,  Madame." 


IN  ST.  OUEN.  163 

There  was  a  long  silence — a  darkness  seemed  to  have 
fallen  over  the  room,  a  darkness  not  because  the  red  sun- 
light was  fading  away  behind  the  hills,  but  because  heavi- 
ness was  in  the  hearts  of  these  two  silent  women.  They 
did  not  hear  a  soft  step,  a  half-hushed  sob,  behind  the 
door  that  stood  ajar.  Dolores  had  come  in  and  heard 
Marcelline's  last  words.  She  stood  for  a  moment  full  of 
anguish  and  terror,  then  she  seized  her  hat  from  the  peg 
where  it  hung,  took  the  key  from  the  table,  and  ran  down 
the  garden  path  to  the  gate,  unseen. 

"Cruel,  cruel  Marcelline,  to  betray  me!"  she  said, 
with  a  great  sob,  as  she  paused  for  a  moment  before 
unlocking  it ;  and  then  she  hurried  out,  and  away  down 
the  hill. 

Her  heart  was  filled  with  a  great  fear.  What  would 
become  of  her  now  that  her  mother  kne\*  this  terrible 
secret? — her  mother,  who  had  never  been  tender  or 
loving  to  her  in  all  her  life — only  cold,  and  even  harsh. 
She  thought  she  would  run  away  somewhere,  she  knew 
not  where ;  not  to  Paris,  nor  Guy — ah  !  not  to  him,  since 
he  cared  nothing  for  her.  How  could  she  ever  look  in 
her  mother's  face  again  now  that  her  shame  was  known? 
How  meet  the  stern,  contemptuous  gaze  she  felt  would 
be  directed  towards  her  ths  next  time  she  entered  that 
dreaded  presence  ? 


164  DOLORES. 

CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE  YELLOW  SEINE. 

THE  poor  child  hurried  down  the  hill  with  hasty,  uncer- 
tain feet,  feeling  cruelly  her  helplessness,  her  loneliness, 
her  impotency  to  decide  for  herself,  and  yet  with  one 
great  certainty  in  her  heart, — the  certainty  that  she  must 
never  see  her  mother's  face  again.  She  went  on  and  on 
until  she  came  to  the  quay,  then  she  walked  along  it  until 
she  had  passed  all  the  shops  and  houses  and  people.  There 
was  no  one  just  here.  It  was  growing  dark,  and  Dolores 
knelt  down  on  the  beach  and  looked  into  the  river.  A 
strange  feeling  came  over  her — the  feeling  that  possesses 
many  nervous  minds  when  they  look  into  the  water  or 
gaze  down  from  a  great  height.  ,  It  was  a  kind  of  fascina- 
tion; she  almost  longed  to  throw  herself  in.  Fantastic 
visions  seemed  to  come  before  her  of  white,  vapory 
shadows,  beckoning  from  beneath  the  water,  and  she 
thought  of  Andersen's  pathetic  story  of  the  little  mer- 
maid who  had  loved  the  handsome  prince.  He  had  been 
very  kind  and  good  to  her,  had  loved  her  like  a  little 
sister,  but  he  would  not  make  her  his  princess.  Then, 
when  she  saw  him  with  his  beautiful  bride  in  his  arms, 
she  had  plunged  the  sharp  knife  into  her  poor  sorrowful 
heart,  and  thrown  herself  deep  down  into  the  cold  waters 
of  forgetfulness. 

"  Would  it  be  hard  to  die  ?"  said  the  child  in  a  whisper 
to  herself.  "If  one  were  dead,  nothing  would  trouble 
one — no  one  would  be  angry  any  more."  And  she 
stretched  out  her  hands  to  the  water. 


THE    YELLOW  SEINE.  165 

Warm  as  the  summer  night  was,  it  struck  cold  and 
chill.  She  shrank  back,  then  she  stooped  down  a  little 
nearer.  With  a  violent  start  she  felt  some  one  catch  her 
by  the  arm ;  then  she  seemed  to  fall  forward,  and,  for  a 
little  while,  she  forgot  everything. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  she  came  to  her  senses  and 
looked  up.  Thousands  of  stars  were  shining  in  the  dark- 
blue  vault  above,  and  a  kind  face  was  bending  over  her, 
while  warm  hands  clasped  her  chilled  ones. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,  my  dear,"  said  a  voice — a  very 
tender  one  for  a  man's  voice ;  "  you  are  quite  safe." 

"Where  am  I?"  Dolores  asked,  feeling  strangely  sick 
and  giddy. 

"You  looked  too  long  into  the  water;  you  might  have 
fallen  in.  I  caught  you,  and  startled  you,  perhaps.  When 
you  are  better  I  will  take  you  home." 

"Home!"  repeated  the  girl,  with  a  shiver,  suddenly 
remembering  everything, — "no,  not  home."  And  she 
rose,  and  stood  upright  by  herself. 

"Where,  then?"  the  stranger  asked,  kindly.  She 
stood  for  a  minute  without  answering — then  she  said, — 

"Thank  you,  monsieur,  I  am  quite  well  now.  I  will 
go  by  myself,  if  you  please." 

"You  are  too  young  to  be  out  alone  so  late,"  he 
answered,  gravely.  "  You  must  really  let  me  go  with 
you." 

"I  cannot,"  she  said,  firmly.  Then  she  looked  up 
in  his  face,  and  seeing  how  kind  and  good  it  was,  and 
what  a  tender  pitiful  expression  it  wore,  she  said,  beseech- 
ingly,— 

"Let  me  go,  monsieur." 

He  was  silent,  and  she  turned  away.  But  as  she  walked 
on  slowly,  she  felt  that  he  was  following  her.  They  came 
back  to  the  Quai,  and  she  sat  down  on  one  of  the  great 


i66  DOLORES. 

bales,  with  her  face  averted  from  him.  He  paused  for  a 
moment,  and  then  came  up  close  to  her.  "  I  do  not  want 
to  intrude  upon  you,  nor  to  pry  into  your  secrets,  but  I 
know  you  are  in  trouble,  and  I  want  to  help  you." 

The  words  were  spoken  so  kindly  and  simply,  they  made 
the  tears  rush  to  Dolores's  eyes ;  but  she  was  silent,  for  she 
could  not  find  words  to  answer  him. 

"  I  have  seen  you  twice  in  St.  Ouen,  when  you  were 
there  alone  and  unhappy;  to-night  I  saw  you  hurrying 
down  the  hill,  looking  wild  and  miserable,  and  I  followed 
you.  Forgive  me  if  I  trouble  you,  but  I  am  so  anxious  to 
help  you." 

For  a  moment  Dolores  thought  she  would  tell  this  kind 
stranger  everything,  and  he  might  advise  her  what  to  do ; 
then  all  her  instinctive  delicacy  rushed  back  upon  her,  and 
she  put  the  thought  away.  In  her  love  and  grief  before, 
she  had  forgotten  her  modesty,  had  thrown  herself  into 
the  arms  of  a  man  who  cared  nothing  for  her :  should  she 
make  her  shame  and  remorse  still  greater  by  confiding  it 
to  an  utter  stranger  ? 

"You  are  very  good,  monsieur,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,  but  you  cannot  help  me. 
I  have  been  wicked  and  foolish." 

"  If  it  is  so,  my  dear,  do  you  think  to  mend  matters  by 
running  away  alone  and  at  this  hour  ?  Have  you  any  one 
you  wish  to  go  to?" 

"There  is  no  one  who  wants  to  have  me,"  said  the 
child,  bitterly,  fresh  tears  coming  in  her  eyes. 

"  Have  you  no  father  or  mother?" 

"I  have  a  mother." 

"Here  in  Rouen?" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"And  you  would  go  away  and  break  her  heart  with 
anxiety  for  you  ?' ' 


THE    YELLOW  SEINE.  167 

"  She  would  be  glad  I  was  gone,  now  she  knows  what 
I  have  done." 

"  Is  it  something  so  terrible?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Dolores,  with  a  half-choked  sob.  "  I  did 
not  see  it  then,  but  now." 

"Come,  come,"  whispered  the  stranger,  soothingly, 
"  I  hope  you  are  making  too  much  of  the  matter.  I  can- 
not fancy  you  have  done  anything  very  dreadful,  after  all. 
It  is  getting  so  late.  Does  no  one  at  home  know  where 
you  are?" 

"  No.     I  ran  away  when  I  heard " 

"Heard  what?" 

"  Marcelline  tell  mamma." 

"  Then  you  did  not  go  because  your  mother  reproached 
or  angered  you?" 

"No." 

"  Has  she  ever  been  cruel  to  you?" 

"No." 

"  Come  back  with  me,  then,  dear  child.  All  this 
is  some  fancy  on  your  part.  You  little  know  what  a 
mother's  love  is,  if  you  think  it  would  turn  a  babe  like 
you  adrift  on  the  world  in  a  fit  of  anger.  I  dare  say  now 
she  is  searching  everywhere  in  town  for  you,  and  vowing 
to  forgive  you  all,  if  only  you  go  back  to  her.  Come." 

"  I  cannot !  I  cannot !"  sobbed  Dolores.  "  Oh,  mon- 
sieur, leave  me — only  leave  me  !" 

"  To  throw  yourself  into  the  Seine?" 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  do  that,  indeed,"  stammered  Do- 
lores ;  "  but  I  looked  and  looked,  and  it  seemed  as  if  some 
one  beckoned  me ;  and  then — I  thought  I  should  never 
trouble  any  one  again — and  I  was  so  miserable  !" 

"Poor  little  child  !"  said  the  kind  grave  voice,  quite 
broken  with  pity  for  this  unhappy,  misguided  little  soul. 
"  Come  with  me.  I  dare  answer  you  will  meet  no  harsh- 


1 68  DOLORES. 

ness  or  severity  if  you  do.  I  have  a  sister  who  is  the 
kindest  creature  in  the  world,  and  she  will  take  you  and 
be  good  to  you." 

It  began  to  dawn  on  Dolores  that  she  had  been  very 
wrong  and  foolish,  and  that  there  was  no  help  for  her  but 
to  go  home.  So  she  rose  from  the  great  bale  she  had  been 
sitting  on,  and  walked  by  his  side,  while  he  held  her  hand 
in  his,  now  and  again  giving  it  a  kind  reassuring  pressure. 
They  ascended  the  hill  together,  speaking  very  little, 
Dolores  overcome  by  the  weight  of  her  shame,  he  silent 
from  delicacy. 

Mrs.  Power  was  standing  at  the  gate,  looking  eagerly 
down  the  road. 

"Dolores!"  she  cried,  as  the  two  came  up  to  her. 
"Oh,  child,  why  did  you  do  this?"  And  she  put  her 
arm  round  the  girl,  and  kissed  her,  to  Philip  Etherege's 
intense  comfort. 

Dolores  was  silent,  stupefied  for  a  moment ;  then  she 
released  herself  from  her  mother's  embrace,  and  ran  past 
her  through  the  garden.  Mrs.  Power  recovered  herself, 
and  turned  to  the  stranger. 

"Is  it  you,  sir,  whom  I  have  to  thank  for  bringing  my 
daughter  back  to  me?" 

Captain  Etherege  bowed. 

"Where  did  you  find  her?" 

"  On  the  brink  of  the  river,  madame." 

The  mother  gave  a  terrified  glance  at  him. 

"  Do  you  mean " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  well  not  to  leave  her  too  much 
alone,"  he  said,  gently.  "  She  seems  to  have  some  great 
terror  preying  on  her  mind." 

"Terror — of  what?"  cried  Mrs.  Power,  with  a  white 
blanched  face,  beginning  to  have  all  manner  of  horrible 
doubts. 


THE    YELLOW  SEINE.  169 

"  She  told  me  she  had  done  something  foolish,  and  that 
she  had  run  away  because  some  one  had  told  you  of  it. 
1  have  seen  your  daughter  before.  My  sister  and  I  take 
a  deep  interest  in  her,  it  is  so  sad  that  such  a  mere  child — • 
I  beg  your  pardon,  madame,  I  will  not  intrude  upon  you 
any  longer." 

"  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you,"  answered  Mrs.  Power, 
in  a  low  voice ;  "  it  must  seem  strange,  but  I  cannot  offer 
you  any  explanation  of  this  matter." 

"  Not  for  the  world  !"  cried  Captain  Etherege.  "Pray 
do  not  say  one  word  ;  believe  me,  I  neither  seek  nor  desire 
any  explanation.  If  you  will  permit  me  to  leave  you  my 
card,  and  to  inquire  at  some  future  time  after  your  daugh- 
ter, it  is  the  greatest  and  only  favor  you  can  confer  on 
me." 

"If  you  wish  it,"  Mrs.  Power  answered,  unable  to 
refuse  his  simple  request.  "I  do  not  think  I  need  ask 
you  to  keep  silence  about  what  has  happened  to-night." 

"I  think  not,"  he  answered,  gravely. 

"Thank  you."     And  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

The  mother  turned  from  the  gate  with  a  heavy  heart, 
and  went  back  to  the  sitting-room.  Dolores  was  not 
there;  and  slowly,  painfully,  Mrs.  Power  ascended  the 
stairs  and  went  into  the  little  bedroom. 

Dolores  looked  up  with  great  frightened  eyes,  which 
the  mother  seeing,  cried  out,  "Oh,  child,  are  you  so 
afraid  of  me?"  and,  taking  the  little  trembling  form  to 
her  breast,  she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"It  is  my  fault — my  fault !"  she  moaned.  ."Oh,  my 
poor  little  child  1" 

And  thus  the  two  wept  together,  and  for  the  first  and 
last  time  in  her  life  Dolores  knew  the  greatness  of  a 
mother's  love — the  mother  whom  she  had  thought  so 
cold  and  stern.  For  she  knew  not  how  that  rigid  exte- 

K  IS 


1 70  DOLORES. 

rior  was  but  as  the  crust  of  ice  that  an  intense  cold  has 
made  over  a  deep  stream,  while  the  water  still  flows  swift 
and  strong  beneath. 

The  next  morning,  when  Marcelline  went  to  call  her 
mistress,  she  found  her  quite  cold  and  dead.  She  had 
not  been  to  bed.  On  her  writing-table  were  two  letters 
— one  unfinished. 

Marcelline  could  hardly  believe  she  was  dead.  She 
rushed  hastily  to  Pierre,  and  sent  him  off  for  the  doctor. 
He  came  at  once — a  kind-hearted  little  man,  who  had 
been  called  in  by  Mrs.  Power  once  or  twice  when  she 
had  been  seriously  ill  before. 

"Ah!  ah!"  he  said,  nodding  his  head  shrewdly,  "poor 
lady !  poor  lady !  As  I  thought — the  heart !  Some  emo- 
tion, some  violent  emotion!  What  is  this? — what  is 
this?"  And  he  put  on  his  spectacles  and  looked  at  the 
writing,  but  he  could  make  nothing  of  it,  for  he  did  not 
understand  a  dozen  words  of  English.  "And  little  Miss — 
does  she  know?" 

Marcelline  wrung  her  hands. 

"Poor  babe!  poor  lamb!  poor  angel! — no!  She 
still  sleeps,  and  I  have  not  the  heart  to  wake  her." 

"She  has  some  friends,  hein — somewhere  in  England  ?" 

"  I  know  not.  It  may  be  in  this  letter."  And  Mar- 
celline mournfully  indicated  the  sheet  of  paper  lying  on 
the  escritoire. 

"She  ought  to  be  got  out  of  the  house  until  all  this 
sad  business  is  over.  And  then  her  friends  must  be 
written  to.  Who  will  do  all  this?  Surely  she  knows 
some  one  English  person  here  in  Rouen." 

"Not  a  single  one,  except — ah!  except "  And 

Marcelline  bethought  her  of  the  kind,  grave-looking 
Englishman  who  had  brought  back  her  child  after  her 
second  flight.  "There  is  a  gentleman  who  lives  in  the 


THE    YELLOW  SEINE.  171 

Campagne  close  by,  with  his  sister,  but  she  has  only 
spoken  just  a  few  words  with  him." 

"  Ah !"  responded  the  little  doctor,  "  I  know.  A  tall, 
melancholy  man,  with  the  spleen — very  English,  and  a 
nice  amiable  little  lady — very  English  too,  but  no  spleen. 
I  attended  her  for  migraine  last  week.  In  an  hour  I 
shall  go  to  her,  and  speak  of  poor  little  Miss.  She  is 
good,  I  know — she  will  interest  herself." 

And,  true  to  his  word,  the  kind  little  man  betook  him- 
self to  Miss  Etherege,  told  her  the  story,  and  entreated 
her  kind  offices  for  her  poor  forlorn  little  compatriote. 
She  put  on  her  bonnet  and  went  at  once  to  Dolores, 
whom  she  found  stricken  with  grief  and  terror,  entreat- 
ing to  be  allowed  to  see  her  mother,  whom  she  had  killed 
by  her  wicked  conduct.  At  first  she  shrank  from  the 
sight  of  a  stranger,  but  Mary  Etherege  was  so  tender,  so 
refined,  so  sympathetic,  that  in  a  very  short  time  the 
child  was  won  over,  and  clung  gratefully  to  her  new 
friend.  And  she  shrank,  as  all  young  things  do,  from 
the  terrible  presence  of  death,  and  when  Miss  Etherege 
proposed  to  take  her  to  her  own  home  for  a  day  or  two, 
and  Marcelline  affectionately  urged  her  to  accept  the 
invitation  so  heartily  given,  she  acquiesced. 

Often  she  wondered  afterwards  what  would  have  become 
of  her  if  Philip  and  Mary  Etherege  had  not  been  sent  to 
her  at  this  time — she  so  childish  and  ignorant  of  all 
worldly  affairs,  and  Marcelline  equally  helpless.  As  it 
was,  they  arranged  everything  for  her — she  had  no  care 
but  the  sorrow  of  losing  her  mother ;  and  after  the  first 
shock,  that  loss  was  not  so  grievous — they  had  been  so 
little  to  each  other. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  Campagne,  Mary  Etherege 
put  two  papers  into  her  hand. 

"These  must  be  for  you  to  read,  my  dear,"  she  said, 


172 


DOLORES. 


gently :    "  they  were   on   your  poor  mamma's  writing- 
table." 

With  trembling  hands  and  dim  eyes,  Dolores  took  them 
and  read  thus : 

My  DEAR  CHILD, 

"  I  have  too  long  delayed  this  task — pray  God  give  me 
strength  to  complete  it  to-night,  for  I  feel  my  days  are 
numbered ;  and  but  for  your  sake,  my  poor  child,  to 
whom  I  fear  I  have  so  imperfectly  filled  a  mother's  place, 
how  gladly  would  I  go  home  to  rest !  Rest !  oh,  child, 
how  I  have  prayed  for  you  this  night  on  my  knees,  that 
you  may  never  know  that  awful  heartsick  weariness  that 
makes  the  most  perfect  thought  of  heaven — rest !  My 
heart  aches  for  you,  to  think,  child  as  you  are,  that 
you  have  suffered  already — suffered  when  you  ought  to 
know  nothing  but  joy  and  laughter ;  and  I  feel  sore  self- 
reproach  to  think  that  my  own  grief  has  made  me  too 
little  careful  of  your  welfare.  But  you  always  seemed  to 
me  so  thoughtless,  so  frivolous,  so  devoid  of  all  deep 
feeling,  that  no  thoughts  save  for  your  immediate  bodily 
welfare  ever  troubled  me. 

"I  have  so  little  strength,  I  must  come  quickly  to  the 
important  part  of  what  I  have  to  write  you.  Your  father's 
name  I  cannot  tell  you,  though  I  am  his  lawful  wife,  and 
you  his  lawful  child,  though  he  still  lives,  and  is  a  man 
of  name  and  position  in  the  world.  I  sacrifice  you  as  I 
sacrificed  myself,  as  I  would  sacrifice  ten  lives,  ten  children, 
if  he  asked  it  of  me ;  so,  my  poor  little  one,  I  pray  your 
forgiveness,  for  you  owe  me  nothing  but  reproach.  And 
yet  do  not  think  harshly  of  me.  I  have  suffered  so  terribly 
these  fifteen  years,  and,  as  God  is  my  witness,  for  no  fault 
of  mine.  When  I  am  dead,  what  little  I  have  will  belong 
to  you.  You  need  not  be  dependent  on  any  one,  since 


THE    YELLOW  SEINE. 


'73 


you  will  always  have  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year, 
the  principal  of  which  is  invested  in  the  English  Funds. 
The  name  and  address  of  my  lawyer  you  will  find  in  my 
desk.  I  am  getting  so  weak,  I  must  break  off  my  letter 
to  write  another — to  a  friend  who  was  dear  to  me  twenty 
years  ago.  I  shall  commend  you  to  her  care.  If  I  live,  I 
will  add  more  to  this  letter  at  another  time;  if  not " 

There  the  letter  ended.  The  other  sheet  of  paper  con- 
tained only  these  few  words : 

"  MY  DEAR  CAROLINE, 

"You  know  what  friends  we  were  in  the  old  days — you 
cannot  have  forgotten  all  the  faithful  promises  we  made 
each  other  when  we  were  girls  together.  It  is  twenty 
years,  or  very  nearly,  since  you  saw  or  heard  of  me,  but 
I  know  all  about  you — where  you  live,  how  many  children 
you  have — for  I  took  great  pains  to  find  you  out  when  I 
was  in  England  a  month  ago.  You  have  had  a  smooth 
and  happy  life,  and  I — but  never  mind,  it  is  nearly  over 
— will  be  quite  over  when  you  read  this.  Oh,  Carry,  for 
the  sake  of  our  old  love,  be  good  to  my  child  !" 

And  that  was  all — no  address,  no  clue  of  any  kind. 

Captain  Etherege  wrote  to  the  lawyer,  but  he  could 
give  no  information  of  any  kind,  as  he  had  only  managed 
a  few  unimportant  affairs  for  Mrs.  Power,  and  that  only 
within  the  last  five  years.  Mary  suggested  advertising  in 
the  English  papers;  but,  as  there  was  no  doubt  Power 
was  only  a  feigned  name,  and  Dolores's  father  was  evi- 
dently interested  in  ignoring  her,  Philip  thought  such  a 
measure  useless. 

What  was  to  be  done  with  her  ?  was  the  vexed  question 
that  constantly  presented  itself  to  the  minds  of  brother 
and  sister. 

15* 


174  DOLORES. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

IN   DAYS   GONE   BY. 

Two  months  passed,  and  at  the  end  of  them  Dolores 
was  beginning  to  be  a  little  more  like  her  old  self.  There 
was  many  an  hour  during  which  she  sat  listless  and  sorrow- 
ful ;  there  were  still  sometimes  traces  of  tears  on  her  soft 
cheeks,  but  she  did  laugh  now  and  then,  and  there  was 
occasionally  a  ring  of  the  old  blitheness  in  her  sweet  voice. 
We  must  forget  in  time,  or,  at  all  events,  become  less 
sensitive  to  our  bitter  sorrows,  thank  God  !  only  let  the 
days,  and  weeks,  and  months  come  to  an  end,  and  they 
will  find  (even  after  the  crudest  suffering)  some  of  us 
resigned,  some  stultified,  some  utterly  oblivious. 

"  Two  gifts,  perforce,  we  have  given  us  yet, 
Though  sad  things  stay  and  glad  things  fly- 
Two  gifts  we  have  given  us — to  forget 
All  glad  and  sad  things  that  go  by, 
And  then  to  die." 

Most  of  us  want  to  die  at  first,  when  we  are  so  wretched 
— ah,  so  wretched ! — that  the  most  cruel  thought  is  the 
thought  of  a  long  life.  But  then,  some  time,  the  bitter 
dark  days  pass,  and  we  come  out  again  into  the  sunlight, 
and  we  can  thank  God  then  for  not  having  listened  to  the 
impatient  prayer  of  our  sorrow.  So  Dolores,  having  little 
to  remind  her  of  her  grief,  began  gradually  to  think  less 
of  it,  and  to  see  the  sprouting  green  shoots  of  an  oasis  in 
what  had  seemed  to  her  poor  little  weeping  eyes  one  great 
desert  of  scorching  sand.  The  silver  that  had  begun  to 


IN  DAYS  GONE  BY. 


'75 


line  her  dark  cloud  was  the  constant  presence  and  com- 
panionship of  Captain  Etherege  and  his  sister. 

Dolores  still  lived  with  Marcelline  in  the  little  white 
house.  Miss  Etherege  had  tried  to  persuade  her  to  go  to 
England,  where  she  would  seek  out  some  kind,  pleasant 
people  to  take  care  of  her  j  but  the  girl  set  herself  reso- 
lutely against  this  project. 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  she  answered,  decisively.  "I  will  go 
on  living  here — at  all  events,  so  long  as  you,  my  two  kind 
friends,  are  here.  What  should  I  do  in  cold,  miserable 
England,  where  I  know  no  one  ?" 

Marcelline  was  more  than  a  mother  to  her — mother, 
friend,  devoted  slave,  all  in  one ;  and  the  two  had  a  pleas- 
ant sense  of  freedom,  now  that  the  first  shock  of  Mrs. 
Power's  death  was  over.  No  one  to  fear,  no  one  to 
tremble  at,  no  one  to  consider,  no  one  to  obey.  All  day 
and  every  day  Dolores  spent  with  her  new  friends.  They 
planned  little  excursions  to  amuse  and  distract  her  mind  • 
they  had  books  and  pictures  to  show  her ;  they  took  her 
walks  and  drives,  and  never  seemed  weary  of  having  her 
with  them.  What  she  cared  most  for  was  to  sit  in  the 
twilight,  on  a  low  stool  near  the  open  window,  and  hear 
Captain  Etherege  tell  of  the  foreign  countries  he  had 
visited,  and  all  the  anecdotes  and  incidents  of  his  life  that 
he  could  remember.  When  he  discovered  that  she  cared 
to  hear  of  these  things,  how  he  racked  his  brain  to  think 
of  them  ! — what  efforts  he  made  to  rouse  himself  from  his 
natural  shyness  !  His  sister,  sitting  in  the  far  corner,  that 
the  remembrance  of  her  presence  might  not  disturb  him, 
smiled  to  herself  a  little  sadly,  and  thought,  somehow,  of 
Othello  and  Desdemona,  as  she  saw  the  girl's  rapt  eyes 
fixed  on  his  grave,  deep-lined  face. 

And  all  this  time  the  child  was  twining  herself  round 
Philip  Etherege' s  world-worn  heart — twining  so  tight,  so 


176  DOLORES. 

tight,  it  pained  him  many  a  time,  and  wrung  great  sighs 
from  him. 

"How  could  I  ever  hope  she  would  care  even  a  little 
for  me?"  he  said,  sadly — "such  a  tender  blossom,  and  I 
so  old  and  careworn  !  Yes,  I  am  an  old  man  compared 
with  her;  and  I  look  ten  years  older  even  than  I  am. 
Forty  and  seventeen  ! — the  disparity  is  horrible  to  think 
of  1"  And  he  whispered  to  himself  Shakspeare's  verses — 

" '  Crabbed  age  and  youth 
Cannot  live  together ; 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 
Age  is  full  of  care. 

Age,  I  do  abhor  thee, 

Youth,  I  do  adore  thee ; 

Oh,  my  love,  my  love  is  young !' 

"  I  dare  say  she  thinks  of  me  as  some  quite  old  man,  too 
old  even  to  remember  the  warm  feelings  of  youth.  Oh, 
if  she  only  knew  how  fresh  and  keen  my  heart  is  still — 
just  as  capable  of  loving  as  when  it  was  twenty  years 
younger !  And,  even  if  it  was  not  for  that,  could  I  dare 
to  join  her  young  life  to  my  miserable,  disgraced  one? 
Though  she  has  no  name,  no  parents,  no  friends,  could  I 
dare  to  take  advantage  of  that  ?  Ah,  how  little  I  thought 
ever  to  love  or  want  to  trust  a  woman  again  !" 

Then  he  wondered  to  himself  what  could  be  that  secret 
in  her  life,  so  terrible,  so  bitter,  that  should  have  made 
her  want  to  hide  herself  away  from  the  scorn  that  followed 
it — hide  herself  even  in  death. 

"Did  she  love  some  man  very  dearly  in  her  sweet 
innocent  heart,  and  did  he  deceive  her  ?  If  I  could  find 

the  blackguard  out "  And  a  sudden  passion  made 

the  hot  blood  flush  into  his  cheeks.  Then  his  head 


IN  DAYS  GONE  BY. 


177 


dropped  upon  his  arms,  and  a  strange  passing  bitterness 
made  his  strong  frame  heave  and  tremble. 

Presently  he  leans  back  in  his  chair,  and  sits  staring, 
with  deep,  intent  eyes,  at  the  burning  logs.  Looking 
into  the  fitful  blaze,  this  is  what  he  sees : 

A  room  wherein  the  light  of  a  midsummer  evening  is 
waning,  but  there  is  yet  no  darkness;  everything,  even 
into  the  dimmest  corner,  stands  out  in  bold  relief.  Re- 
clining nonchalantly  in  a  low  chair  is  a  fair  woman, 
pretty  in  feature,  but  almost  repulsive  in  expression  at 
this  moment.  The  picture  is  well  engraved  on  his 
mind,  even  to  the  shimmering  satin,  the  cloudy  lace,  that- 
lay  in  folds  round  her  svelte  figure ;  even  to  the  jewels 
that  deck  her  ears,  her  breast,  and  arms.  There  leans 
against  the  chimney-piece  a  man,  whose  face  is  dark  with 
pain  and  anger,  in  whose  eyes  there  is  the  strangest  min- 
gling of  wrath  and  pity.  That  man  is  himself. 

His  mind  takes  a  leap  further  back ;  as  in  dreams  where 
in  a  moment  one  seems  to  live  through  long  spaces  of 
time,  he  goes  through  the  past  years  of  his  life.  In  the 
young  days  he  has  been  wild,  lived  hard,  as  most  men  in 
the  service  have — more,  perhaps,  from  idleness  and  ennui 
than  from  any  especial  predisposition  to  or  love  for  vice. 
There  is  some  folly,  some  sin,  much  wasted  time,  to  recall, 
but  no  disgrace,  no  stain  of  dishonor — nothing  that,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  tarnishes  a  man's  fair  fame.  And 
from  the  moment  that  he  knew  this  woman,  his  life  has 
been  a  page  open  and  fair  to  all  who  might  choose  to 
read.  She  was  young,  girlish,  pretty,  and  he  loved  her 
dearly — nay,  with  all  his  heart — and  they  were  married. 
She  traveled  about  with  him,  wherever  his  regiment  was 
ordered.  He  put  no  restraint  upon  her ;  she  might  dance 
and  laugh  with  whom  she  chose.  He  did  not  suspect  her 
— was  only  glad  that  she  should  be  admired  and  happy. 
M 


178  DOLORES. 

He  was  not  a  rich  man,  but  he  could  afford  to  gratify 
many  of  her  extravagant  tastes.  What  he  had  he  gave 
lovingly,  ungrudgingly.  A  year  passed;  she  grew  cold 
to  him.  If  it  had  been  only  that ! — hard  as  that  is  for 
one  who  loves  to  bear — but  there  were  rumors — rumors 
that,  at  last,  even  he  could  not  help  hearing.  He  sent  in 
his  papers  at  once.  She  cried,  implored,  entreated.  In 
answer  he  uttered  not  one  word  of  suspicion  or  reproach, 
but  on  the  subject  of  leaving  the  army  he  was  inexorable. 
They  went  to  live  in  London.  He,  a  sportsman,  fond 
of  all  country  pursuits,  abhorred  it ;  but  he  said  to  him- 
self,— 

"  What  right  have  I  to  make  her  miserable  by  shutting 
her  up  in  the  country?  If  I  condemn  her  to  a  dull  life 
after  what  she  has  been  used  to,  it  will  be  my  fault  if  she 
is  driven  to  deceive  me. ' ' 

So  he  took  a  house  in  London,  lived  a  life  he  hated, 
went  with  her  to  balls,  theatres,  dinners,  rode  and  drove 
with  her,  gratified  all  her  whims,  so  far  as  he  could,  and 
begrudged  not  the  sacrifice,  for  he  loved  her  dearly.  And 
she  was  dissatisfied — wretched.  She  could  not  tear  her- 
self away  from  the  life  that  did  not  satisfy  her.  It  morti- 
fied her  every  day  to  see  women  richer,  better  dressed, 
more  admired  than  herself.  Why  should  not  she  have 
stepping  horses,  and  diamonds,  and  half  a  dozen  men  of 
fashion  at  her  beck  and  call?  She  girded  more  bitterly 
at  the  hardness  of  her  fate  than  the  beggar  who  knows  not 
where  to  look  for  his  next  meal.  The  man  who  loved  her 
unselfishly  was  sorry  for  her.  He  read  her  heart,  but 
did  not  despise  her  for  what  he  found  there;  he  only 
said, — 

"  Poor  little  girl !  she  should  have  married  a  man  with 
ten  thousand  a  year  !" 

As  she  grew  daily  colder  and  more  indifferent  to  him, 


IN  DAYS   GONE  BY. 


179 


impatient  of  all  he  said  or  did,  more  exacting  the  more  he 
sacrificed,  she  became  more  anxious  for  the  flattery  and 
admiration  of  other  men.  Her  flirtations  were  so  prononct 
that  her  own  sex  began  to  draw  aside  from  her ;  still  her 
husband  shielded  her,  made  excuses  for  her ;  no  one  ever 
heard  him  say  one  harsh  or  bitter  word  of  her — not  the 
women  who  knew  him  best  could  wring  one  word  from 
him  to  her  disparagement.  Once  a  servant  hinted  to  him 
something  against  her  mistress;  he  turned  her  from  the 
house  there  and  then — he  could  not,  would  not  see. 

A  time  came  when  it  was  impossible  to  shut  his  eyes 
any  more;  he  left  her  half  mad  with  agony,  and  went 
straight  to  his  lawyer.  Why  didn't  he  kill  the  man? 
Yes,  if  it  had  been  one.  A  month  passed — a  month  of 
awful  sickening  pain,  in  which,  after  his  first  fury  against 
her,  he  said  to  himself,  "  Shall  I  leave  her  to  infamy  and 
disgrace,  to  a  horror  worse  than  death? — shall  I  drive  he: 
deeper  into  the  abyss  than  she  is  already?  What  is  my 
life  worth  to  me  ? — what  future  have  I  to  look  forward  to  ? 
— how  can  I  hold  up  my  head  again  in  the  world  ?  Shall 
I  not  try  to  save  her  ?  Perhaps  she  has  suffered  bitterly ; 
her  punishment  may  already  be  enough." 

I  know  not  what  visions  he  sees  of  the  long  golden  hair 
trailing  in  the  dust,  of  the  eyelids  red  with  weeping,  of 
the  fair  face  distorted  by  shame  and  sorrow,  as  he  turns 
his  steps  to  that  house  that  he  has  once  called  home.  The 
servant  who  opens  the  door  looks  strangely  at  him,  in 
doubt  whether  to  admit  him.  He  solves  the  difficulty  by 
pushing  past  her  and  going  up  into  the  drawing-room. 
It  is  empty. 

"  Tell  your  mistress  I  am  here,"  he  says,  hoarsely,  and 
the  girl  leaves  him  alone. 

A  sickening  feeling  of  expectation  comes  over  him. 
Will  she  see  him  ? — will  she  come  and  throw  herself  at 


l8o  DOLORES. 

his  feet  ?  Then — then  he  will  take  her  in  his  arms  and 
forgive  her,  and  they  will  go  away  together  out  of  Eng- 
land until  the  world  has  forgotten,  and Oh,  how  the 

minutes  drag  themselves  out !  Will  she  never  come  ? 
She  need  not  fear  so  to  meet  him. 

The  handle  of  the  door  turns  somewhat  sharply ;  there 
is  a  rustling,  trailing  sound  of  silk,  and  there  stands  before 
him  no  penitent  Magdalen,  but  a  woman  haughty  and 
bold  of  mien,  with  painted  eyes,  magnificently  dressed, 
with  diamonds  glittering  in  her  ears  and  on  her  breast. 
"  Well,  what  do  you  want  of  me?" 

The  hopes  that  have  been  growing  and  gathering  in  his 
breast  are  dispelled  with  one  bitter  wrench ;  he  stands 
staring  at  her,  not  knowing  what  to  say.  This  is  a  phase 
he  has  not  contemplated. 

"  I  did  not  think  to  find  you  like  this,"  he  says,  bit- 
terly, after  a  moment. 

"  No?"  she  utters,  indifferently,  sailing  gracefully  into 
a  chair.  "  I  am  going  to  the  opera." 

"To  the  opera?"  he  echoes,  harshly.  "Have  you, 
then,  fallen  so  low  that  you  can  flaunt  your  shame  openly 
before  the  world?" 

"If  you  came  for  the  pleasure  of  insulting  me,"  she 
answers,  coldly,  "I  must  decline  to  hear  any  more;  re- 
criminations are  not  amusing,  and  I  suppose  our  lawyers 
can  settle  all  there  is  to  settle." 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  cries,  hoarsely,  "don't  talk  like 
that !  Are  you  destitute  of  every  spark  of  better  feeling? 
Listen :  this  is  what  I  came  for.  I  came,  hoping  to  find 
some  remorse  in  your  heart.  I  came  to  say  to  you,  *  If 
you  have  repented,  if  from  to-day  you  will  swear  to  me 
to  lead  a  new  life,  I  will  take  you  back  to  me ;  not  to  my 
love,  not  to  my  heart,  but  to  my  name — my  hearth  and 
home,  from  shame  and  disgrace — and  we  will  go  together 


IN  DAYS  GONE  BY.  181 

to  some  place  where  no  one  knows  us,  where  no  one  can 
reproach  you,  where ' ' 

" Grand  merci?  she  interrupts,  scornfully;  "your 
offer  is  too  magnanimous,  the  picture  you  draw  too  tempt- 
ing. Thanks  very  much,  but  I  have  other  views." 

His  heart  is  full  of  wrath  and  bitterness,  but  he  cannot 
?»ee  this  woman  who  has  lain  on  his  breast,  whom  he  has 
loved  so  dearly,  go  headlong  to  her  own  perdition. 

"Have  you  no  pity  for  yourself?"  he  says,  presently; 
words  seem  slow  in  coming  to  him — the  words  he  wants. 

"No,"  she  answers,  icily,  "none  at  all.  I  am  sorry 
for  you.  I  suppose  you  find  you  can't  live  without  me. 
I  don't  doubt  this  moment  you  would  take  me  back  on 
my  own  terms  if  I  chose;  but  I  don't  choose." 

He  stands  staring  at  her.  Is  this  creature,  fair  to  look 
upon,  bright-eyed,  red-lipped,  soft-skinned,  a  woman  ? — 
a  helpmate  for  man,  to  be  his  comfort,  his  consolation, 
his  pleasure  ? — the  one  bright  spot  given  to  a  man  to  cheer 
his  dreary  pilgrimage  ? — or  is  it  some  mocking  devil  per- 
mitted by  an  infernal  agency  to  go  about  for  his  miseiy 
and  destruction  ? 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?"  The  words  came  harsh 
and  dry  from  his  parched  throat. 

"When  we  are  divorced,  I  am  going  to  marry  a  man 
with  ten  thousand  a  year,  or  very  near  it.  You  know  you 
always  said  that  was  what  I  ought  to  have  had.  He  will 
be  here  directly  :  you  had  better  go." 

A  sudden  fury  comes  over  him :  he  makes  a  step  to 
wards  her,  a  very  devil  kindling  in  his  flaming  eyes. 

She  looks  at  him  calmly. 

"Are  you  going  to  strangle  me?"  she  asks,  looking  ai 
him  with  eyes  that  never  blench. 

He  falls  back  again,  an  awful  coldness  creeping  over 
him ;  the  horror  is  so  intense,  it  benumbs  him.  He  tries 

16 


182  DOLORES. 

to  steady  himself  against  the  chimney-piece.  As  if  in  a 
dream,  he  hears  the  bell  ring — sees  her  rise  and  go  away. 
A  moment  later  he  hears  a  man's  voice,  with  which  hers 
mingles  laughing.  In  an  instant  he  dashes  towards  the 
door,  his  very  soul  filled  with  murderous  rage ;  his  foot 
catches  in  the  portiere,  and  he  falls  heavily,  striking  his 
head.  For  a  moment  he  lies  stunned ;  then,  as  he  essays 
to  rise,  he  hears  the  street  door  close,  and  a  carriage  drive 
away.  Mechanically  he  goes  down  the  stairs,  takes  his 
hat,  and  leaves  the  house.  His  head  swims,  he  is  not 
aware  of  anything  passing  him,  until  a  man  touches  his 
arm  and  says, — 

"  Hadn't  you  better  get  into  a  cab  and  go  home,  sir? 
You  head  seems  to  be  bleeding  very  bad." 

Then  he  is  conscious  that  people  are  staring  at  him, 
and  that  the  side  of  his  face  is  covered  with  blood. 

"Thank  you,"  he  says;  and  the  man  calls  a  cab  and 
puts  him  into  it. 

"Whereto,  sir?" 

His  memory  seems  to  have  left  him  j  he  cannot  for  the 
life  of  him  remember  the  name  of  his  hotel.  He  stares 
vaguely  at  his  Samaritan  friend. 

"  Perhaps  you've  got  a  card  or  an  envelope  about  you, 
sir?" 

He  pulls  half  a  dozen  letters  from  his  pocket ;  the  ad- 
dress is  the  same  on  all,  so  the  man  directs  the  cabman 
where  to  drive.  Somehow  he  gets  to  his  room,  and  throws 
himself  on  the  bed.  All  through  the  night,  as  he  tosses 
to  and  fro,  his  lips  can  frame  but  one  sentence, — 

"  Oh,  God  !  and  I  loved  that  woman  !" 

Captain  Etherege  sees  all  this  in  the  logs  that  blaze  and 
crackle.  Time  has  worn  off  the  keenness  of  the  sting ; 
but  the  memory  is  still  bitter.  Degraded,  disgraced,  his 


IN  DAYS  GONE  BY.  183 

name  stained,  and  for  no  fault  or  sin  of  his  !  If  he  loved, 
ay,  so  much,  could  he  offer  that  name  to  another  woman  ? 
It  is  two  years  since  all  this  happened.  After  the  di- 
vorce he  went  to  America,  and  for  twelve  months  led  a 
roving  life,  finding  what  diversion  he  might  in  the  wildest 
adventures,  the  most  dangerous  sports.  He  hated  the 
thought  of  England  ;  he  would  rather  have  gone  into  the 
wildest,  loneliest  haunts  of  Indians  than  face  London, 
his  friends,  his  club.  If  he  had  been  the  guiltiest  creature 
on  God's  earth — if  the  mark  of  Cain  had  been  branded 
on  his  brow — he  could  not  have  more  dreaded  to  meet 
those  of  his  fellow-men  who  knew  him  and  his  history. 
So  he  traveled  about  the  continent,  and  finally  landed  at 
Rouen,  which  took  his  fancy  vastly.  Thence  he  wrote  to 
his  eldest  and  only  unmarried  sister. 

"Mv  DEAR  MARY, 

"  If  you  can  be  spared  for  a  little  time  from  your 
nephews  and  nieces — that  is  to  say,  if  you  are  not  nursing 
any  of  the  different  tribes  through  measles,  scarlatina,  or 
\vhooping-cough — come  and  spend  a  month  or  two  with 
me  in  this  quaint  old  city.  Now  you've  taken  to  writing, 
you'll  find  no  end  of  interesting  old  places  and  people 
here  to  scribble  about ;  and  you  will  have  the  comfort  of 
knowing  you're  doing  a  most  charitable  action,  for  I  am 
getting  utterly  heart -sick  for  sight  of  a  face  I  know,  and  I 
don't  think  any  other  would  do  me  so  much  good  as  your 
dear  old  cheery  one.  What  do  you  say?  Will  you 
come?" 

Mary  Etherege's  answer  was  to  come  straight  off,  as 
soon  as  she  had  packed  her  wardrobe  and  foolscap. 


1 84  DOLORES. 

CHAPTER    XIX. 

A  CONFESSION. 

MARCELLINE,  whose  heart  was  bound  up  in  Dolores— 
who  had  no  other  thought  or  wish,  morning,  noon,  and 
night,  but  the  welfare  of  her  little  one,  who  had  run  such 
grievous  risks  and  dangers — Marcelline  was  not  long  in 
discovering  that  Captain  Etherege  loved  her.  The  more 
she  considered  the  subject,  the  more  puzzled  grew  her 
brain.  Thus  her  reflections  ran  : 

"  He  loves  the  little  one,  that  is  certain,  perhaps  even 
without  knowing  it.  How  he  watches  to  see  her  smile — 
to  see  her  pleased  !  What  pains  he  takes  to  satisfy  her 
least  caprice !  And  when  she  looks  happy,  there  comes 
into  his  eyes — ah  !  those  beautiful  eyes,  that  are  like  the 
pictures  of  the  blessed  Saint  Jean — a  tenderness  that 
almost  brings  the  tears  into  my  eyes,  old  fool  that  I  am  ! 
He  is  too  old,  without  doubt,  for  the  little  one  ;  but,  ah, 
how  good  he  would  be  to  her ! — and  is  not  that  a  thou- 
sand times  more  to  be  desired  than  the  quickly-ended 
passion  of  a  young  man,  with  whom  it  is  a  fashion  to  be 
capricious  and  to  desire  every  pretty  face  he  sees  ?  Still, 
she  is  so  young,  the  little  one — so  young  and  tender. 
It  is  not  a  father  she  wants.  Sometimes  they  are  happy, 
though,  these  marriages ;  but  I  have  heard  they  are  not 
approved  among  the  English.  May  the  good  God  watch 
over  her  !"  finished  up  Marcelline,  "  and  send  her  happi- 
ness !" 

Dolores  was  not  ignorant  of  the  love  she  inspired. 
Those  who  themselves  have  loved  become  quick  in  detect- 


A    CONFESSION. 


185 


ing  the  master-passion  in  others,  and  so  the  girl  soon 
came  to  know  that  Captain  Etherege  cared  for  her.  She 
had  no  feeling  for  him  beyond  a  certain  pleasure  in  his 
society  and  in  hearing  him  talk — a  restful  consciousness 
of  protection  in  his  presence,  and  a  grateful  remembrance 
that  he  had  brought  light  across  the  dullness  and  dimness 
of  her  life ;  yet  she  was  glad  he  loved  her — glad  to  think 
she  could  inspire  strong  feeling  in  some  heart,  and,  with 
the  unfairness  of  an  unreasonable  child,  she  took  a  secret 
pleasure  in  fostering  the  passion  which  she  had  no  thought 
of  returning.  But  it  raised  no  hopes  in  him  ;  he  did  not 
even  give  her  credit  for  guessing  at  his  real  feelings ;  and 
as  for  Mary  Etherege,  the  kindest,  best  creature  in  the 
world,  there  was  so  little  sentiment  in  her  nature,  and 
she  was  so  unskilled  in  reading  others,  that  she  had  not 
any  real  consciousness  of  what  her  brother  felt  and  Do- 
lores knew.  She  was  rendered  additionally  blind  by  the 
fact  of  having  her  mind  concentrated  on  writing ;  and 
though  sometimes  vague  thoughts  about  the  two  would 
flit  across  her  brain,  they  took  no  definite  shape. 

One  autumn  evening,  Captain  Etherege,  his  sister,  and 
Dolores  were  sitting  over  a  cheery  wood  fire  in  the  cozy 
little  salon.  There  was  no  light  but  the  flame  of  the 
blazing  logs,  which  threw  a  warm,  ruddy  glow  over  the 
faces  of  the  three ;  but  it  was  light  enough  to  tell  stories 
by,  and  Captain  Etherege  was  telling  one  entranced 
auditor,  at  least,  the  story  of  the  Endymion  and  her  gal- 
lant crew,  who,  at  the  risk  of  being  stranded  on  the  reefs 
themselves,  saved  seven  hundred  of  their  French  foes  from 
a  horrible  death. 

"And  then,"  he  finished,  his  face  all  aglow  with  honest 
pride  at  the  remembrance  of  what  British  tars  had  done — • 
"  then,  when  the  Endymion  had  hauled  them  off  the  rocks, 
and  got  into  fair  water  again  herself,  the  Frenchmen  tum- 

16* 


1 86  DOLORES. 

bled  into  the  rigging,  and  cheered  our  men  like  mad, 
until  the  sound  was  heard  far  above  the  howling  of  the 
wind  and  the  roar  of  the  waves ;  and  then  they  set  sail, 
and  went  to  tell  the  story  of  their  noble  foes,  and  you 
may  depend  after  that  they  never  thought  of  our  British 
tars  without  a  tender  spot  in  their  hearts  somewhere  for 
them." 

Dolores  was  leaning  forward,  her  hands  clasped,  the 
tears  standing  in  her  eager  eyes. 

"Ah,  that  was  noble!"  she  said,  her  voice  so  tremu- 
lous she  could  hardly  speak. 

"Yes,"  Captain  Etherege  answered.  "That  story 
always  stirred  my  blood  more  than  any  other.  I  think  I 
would  rather  have  been  in  the  Endymion  that  time,  almost, 
than  have  fought  by  Nelson's  side  at  Trafalgar." 

At  this  juncture  Mary  Etherege  slipped  away  into  the 
dining-room  to  fetch  some  work.  After  she  was  gone, 
her  brother  and  Dolores  sat  for  some  time  looking  into 
the  fire  without  speaking.  Presently  Captain  Etherege 
glanced  at  his  companion.  The  firelight  flickered  over 
her  peach-like  face  and  round  white  throat;  it  warmed 
her  rich  brown  hair,  and  shone  upon  her  sweet  blue 
eyes. 

"I  know  what  you  remind  me  of,"  he  said,  suddenly. 
"It  has  often  puzzled  me,  but  I  remember  now;  you  are 
like  Greuze's  picture  in  the  Louvre." 

Dolores  gave  one  startled  glance  at  him,  and  then  burst 
into  tears. 

"My  dear  child,  what  have  I  said?"  cried  Philip 
Etherege,  quite  distressed.  "I  would  not  pain  you  for 
the  world!" 

But  Dolores  said  nothing,  only  let  the  great  glistening 
tears  rain  through  her  slender  hands. 

"Dolores,  dear  child,  don't  cry,"  he  said,  kneeling 


A    CONFESSION.  187 

down  beside  her  and  putting  his  arm  round  her;  "you 
make  me  wretched." 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  sobbed,  drawing  herself  away. 

He  sat  down  again  with  a  sigh,  and  remained  silently 
looking  into  the  fire  until  she  left  off  crying  and  removed 
her  hands  from  her  face.  Then  he  took  one  of  them 
tenderly  in  his,  and  when  she  essayed  to  draw  it  from 
him,  he  said,  gently, — 

"Don't  take  it  away,  child;  I  would  not  do  anything 
to  vex  you ;"  and  she  let  it  remain. 

"What  made  you  cry,  dear?"  he  asked,  presently. 
"Was  it  something  I  said?" 

"It  was  about  the  picture,"  Dolores  answered,  looking 
ready  to  cry  again. 

"  We  will  not  speak  of  it,  then,  if  it  pains  you." 

"If  it  had  not  been  for  that  picture,"  cried  Dolores, 
impetuously,  "  I  should  never  have  been  so  miserable — so 
miserable  as  I  am  now." 

"Are  you  still  so  miserable?"  Captain  Etherege  asked, 
in  a  sad  voice. 

"I  shall  never  be  anything  but  miserable." 

"Oh,  child,  don't  say  that!"  he  cried,  in  a  quick, 
uncertain  voice.  "  You  who  are  so  young,  with  life  and 
love  before  you,  to  talk  like  that !" 

"Not  love,"  she  answered,  bitterly;  "that  is  over." 

Philip  Etherege  could  almost  have  smiled,  if  he  had 
not  felt  so  sad. 

"Do  you  know,  dear,"  he  said,  giving  utterance  to 
what  he  had,  a  little  while  before,  been  firmly  resolved 
never  to  betray, — "do  you  know  I  love  you,  with  all  my 
heart — that  I  would  do  or  sacrifice  anything  in  this  world 
for  the  hope  that  you  might  be  mine?  I  don't  tell  you 
this  because  I  think  or  believe  for  one  instant  it  would 
ever  make  you  think  of  me  otherwise  than  you  do  now — 


1 88  DOLORES. 

as  a  man,  old  and  gray — a  man  who  could  never  be  any- 
thing to  you  but  a  friend  or  an  adviser.  I  feel  all  that, 
dear  child,  keenly,  painfully  enough;  but  I  tell  it  you 
just  to  prove  to  you  that,  if  you  can  revive  a  love  in  me 
that  I  thought  no  woman  living  could  re-kindle,  it  makes 
it  doubly  sure  that  many  another  man  will  love  you,  for 
your  beautiful  face  and  your  dear,  sweet  ways.  And  then, 
dear,  when  some  one  comes  who  is  worthy  of  you,  who 
has  youth  and  love  and  all  you  value  to  give  you,  life  will 
seem  very  different  in  your  eyes  from  what  it  does  to-day. 
Seventeen,  and  life  and  love  finished  !  Ah,  my  little  one, 
you  have  tasted  neither  yet." 

" I  have,"  she  cried,  passionately;  " you  do  not  know 
anything."  Then  she  remembered  what  he  had  said 
about  loving  her,  and  she  caught  away  her  hand  quickly. 

"  If  you  knew,"  she  said,  the  deep  red  flushing  in  her 
cheeks,  and  her  voice  faltering — "if  you  knew,  you  would 
not  love  me,  you  would  despise  me." 

"I!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  tender  incredulity. 

"Yes,  you.  Ah,  you  do  not  know  how  foolish  and 
wicked  I  have  been." 

"Foolish,  perhaps,"  he  answered,  regaining  the  little 
hand,  and  kissing  it  tenderly;  "we  are  all  foolish  some 
time  in  our  lives,  but  wicked — no,  dear,  don't  ask  me  to 
believe  that.  I  hardly  think  you  know  what  actual  wick- 
edness means ;  you  have  committed  some  trifling  wrong, 
perhaps,  and  it  seems  a  fearful  enormity  to  your  innocent 
eyes." 

"  If  I  were  to  tell  you " 

"  Don't  tell  me,  dear  child.  I  trust  you.  I  seek  to 
know  nothing."  And  so,  in  his  generosity,  he  put  aside 
the  curiosity  that  had  tormented  him,  waking  and  sleep- 
ing, for  two  months. 

"I  will  tell   you,"  she  said,   resolutely.     "But   you 


A    CONFESSION.  189 

will  still  be  kind  and  good  to  me,  even  if  you  despise 
me.  You  will  not  betray  me  to  any  one,  will  you?" 

There  were  some  noble  chords  in  Dolores's  nature,  and 
her  sorrow  had  struck  music  from  them,  and  made  her 
something  far  sweeter,  higher,  worthier  than  the  frivolous 
child  it  found  her. 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  said  Philip  Etherege,  again. 

"  I  must  tell  you,  because  I  want  you  not  to  love  me," 
she  answered,  her  sweet  voice  trembling.  "It  is  so  terri- 
ble to  love,  when  the  love  is  not  returned." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  mechanically,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

Dolores  went  on : 

"  In  the  spring,  mamma  went  away  to  England,  and 
Marcelline  and  I  were  left  alone  up  at  the  house.  One 
day  a  stranger  saw  me  picking  apple-blossoms,  and  he 
desired  to  paint  me,  because  I  was  like  a  picture  in  the 
Louvre.  So  he  asked  Marcelline,  and  it  was  so  very, 
very  dull  and  quiet  up  there,  she  thought  it  would  please 
me,  and  consented.  He  came  several  times  to  make  my 
picture,  and  I — oh,  Captain  Etherege,  it  seems  so  bold, 
so  immodest  to  tell  you  I  loved  him,  hardly  even  know- 
ing that  I  loved  him."  And  Dolores  stopped  a  moment, 
because  her  voice  was  choked  with  tears. 

"  Poor  little  child  !"  said  Philip,  his  own  eyes  wet  with 
pity,  and  he  kissed  the  little  hand  again. 

"You  will  not  want  to  do  that  when  I  have  told  you 
all,"  uttered  Dolores,  sadly;  but  he  only  clasped  it  the 
tighter. 

"  He  was  a  grand  English  gentleman ;  he  was  very 
kind  and  good  to  me,  but  he  never  even  guessed  I  should 
be  foolish  enough  to  love  him.  Then  he  had  to  go  away 
suddenly ;  he  sent  me  a  letter,  and  I  thought  my  heart 
would  have  broken.  Oh,  if  you  knew  what  it  is  to  feel 
that  misery  of  being  away  out  of  sight  of  some  one  who 


igo  DOLORES. 

is  all  your  life  to  you,  with  the  thought  that  you  will  never 
see  them  again,  you  would  not  want  to  love." 

Captain  Etherege  listened  as  if  in  a  dream.  To  hear 
this  little  girl  warn  him  of  sufferings  that  had  embittered 
the  last  years  of  his  life,  it  was  so  passing  strange,  it  be- 
wildered him  into  silence. 

"For  three  days,"  she  went  on,  "I  was  almost  mad 
with  misery;  then  the  fourth,  I — I  could  not  bear  it,  and  I 
followed  him  to  Paris." 

"Good  God!"  cried  Philip,  in  sudden  agony,  drop- 
ping her  hand. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  shrinking  back,  "I  knew  you  would 
hate  and  despise  me." 

"Oh,  child,  go  on!"  he  cried,  catching  it  again,  and 
grasping  it  so  hard  it  pained  her;  "go  on,  tell  me  all, 
for  God's  sake  !" 

She  snatched  her  hand  away,  and  burst  into  tears, 
while  he  sat  devouring  her  face  with  fierce,  strange,  mis- 
erable eyes. 

"  Don't  keep  me  in  this  suspense  !"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
so  unlike  his  own  that  the  girl  looked  up,  startled. 

"  I  found  him,  and  he  brought  me  back  home,"  she 
faltered.  And  then  there  was  a  long  silence.  Captain 
Etherege  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"  Did  you  want  to  stay  with  him,  child  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands.  "I  implored  him  to  let  me  stay;  I  said  I 
would  be  his  servant — anything,  only  to  be  with  him." 

"And  what  answer  did  he  make?" 

"  He  said  I  knew  not  what  I  asked." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him  since?" 

"  He  stayed  two  days  longer  in  Rouen.  I  have  never 
seen  him  since." 

"And  your  mother — did  she  know?" 


A   LETTER.  19! 

"  Never  until  that  first  day  I  saw  you  down  by  the  Quai. 
I  was  on  the  threshold,  I  heard  Marcelline  tell  her,  and  1 
ran  away  blindly  in  my  shame  and  terror.  Now  you  know 
all,  and  you  will  never  be  my  friend  any  more,  perhaps." 

He  only  kissed  her  hands  passionately  for  answer. 

"We  cannot  give  love  and  take  it  back,"  he  said, 
"  No,  child  ;  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart.  I  believe  you 
as  pure  and  innocent  as  any  woman  breathing ;  and  I 
would  hold  it  the  dearest  blessing  God  could  give  me  to 
shield  your  dear  life  from  harm  and  sorrow.  Oh,  my 
darling,  could  you  not  love  me  a  little — ever  so  little?" 

But  tears  were  his  only  answer. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A    LETTER. 

DOLORES  lay  awake  all  that  night  thinking  of  what  had 
happened  to  her,  and  hardly  knowing  whether  to  be  glad 
or  sorry.  She  was  not  ashamed  of  having  told  the  honest 
truth  to  the  man  who  loved  her ;  it  was  only  fair  and  just 
that  he  should  know,  she  said  to  herself.  And  he  must 
love  her  dearly.  Was  it  not  strong  proof  that  he  remained 
unchanged,  even  after  the  disclosure  which  had  been  so 
painful  and  shameful  to  her?  But  she  did  not  love  him 
— not  as  she  understood  the  meaning  of  love — not  with 
that  wild  worship  she  had  known  for  Guy.  He  would 
protect  and  shelter  and  be  good  to  her,  and  she  felt  rest 
and  trust  in  him — that  was  all.  The  thought  that  he  was 
too  old  never  occurred  to  her ;  he  had  seemed  as  young 


igt  DOLORES. 

as  Guy  when  he  sat  with  her  over  the  firelight  kissing  her 
hands. 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  love  him !"  she  said  to  herself  a 
thousand  times.  "  I  might  be  so  happy  with  him  if  I 
could  forget  Sir  Guy.  Would  he  be  sorry  if  I  married 
some  one  else  ?  No,  I  think  not ;  he  never  cared  for 
me;"  and  then  she  turned  her  face  to  her  pillow  and 
cried.  "  If  it  were  possible,"  she  thought  again,  "that 
some  day  we  might  meet,  and  he  should  think  more  of 
me,  and  then  it  was  too  late." 

And  after  thinking  a  long,  long  time,  she  resolved  to 
write  to  Guy,  and  tell  him,  and  ask  his  advice.  The  next 
day  she  wrote  him  this  letter : 

"  DEAR  SIR  GUY — Once  you  told  me,  if  I  wanted  help 
or  counsel,  to  write  to  you.  I  cling  still  to  the  remem- 
brance of  your  kindness,  though  you,  perhaps,  have  for- 
gotten it,  and  almost  me.  Some  one  who  is  very  good 
and  generous  has  offered  me  his  love.  I  have  told  him 
all  my  foolishness  that  I  was  guilty  of  to  you,  and  he 
pardons  it.  I  do  not  love  him  as — as  I  could  wish ;  but, 
since  he  is  so  good  to  me,  and  cares  so  for  me,  should  I, 
who  can  never  love  again,  refuse  so  much  devotion?  I 
ask  you ;  you  will  advise,  will  you  not  ? 
"Your  little  friend  and  sister, 

"DOLORES." 

With  her  own  hands  she  posted  the  letter,  and  waited 
day  by  day  for  the  answer.  But  it  never  came  ;  and  at 
last  she  was  forced  to  say,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  heart, — • 

"  He  has  forgotten  me  utterly ;  he  will  not  even  give 
himself  the  trouble  to  write  me  one  line."  Then  pride 
came  to  her  rescue.  "It  is  mean  and  pitiful  in  me,"  she 
said,  with  kindling  eyes,  "  to  treasure  in  my  heart  such 


A  LETTER.  193 

love  for  a  man  who  has  no  thought  of  me  !  I  will  never 
think  of  him  any  more."  And  so  she  tried  to  banish  him 
from  her  memory,  and  was  all  the  happier  for  the  effort. 

She  began  to  take  more  interest  in  her  life ;  to  be  glad 
when  she  was  with  Captain  Etherege,  to  be  sorry  when  he 
left  her,  and  to  feel  that  he  was  the  mainspring  of  her  new 
existence,  making  it  all  smooth  and  pleasant  to  her. 

As  for  Philip,  since  that  evening  when  he  had  been 
overcome  into  betraying  his  love  for  her,  he  had  never 
alluded  to  it  again.  She  knew  now  what  his  feelings  were ; 
should  she  ever  have  the  dawn  of  some  warmer,  kindlier 
thought  of  him,  it  would  be  for  her  to  show  it.  Over  and 
over  again  he  thought  of  the  story  she  had  so  frankly 
confessed  to  him ;  and,  bitter  as  the  recollection  was,  it 
seemed,  in  one  sense,  to  bring  her  nearer  to  him.  If  her 
past  had  been  unclouded,  if  she  had  a  future  such  as  most 
young  girls  have  to  look  forward  to,  would  she  not  be 
utterly,  hopelessly  out  of  reach  of  him  ? — of  what  little 
he  had  to  offer?  But  now  there  was  this  dark  page  in  her 
life,  which  she  herself  was  so  bitterly  ashamed  of,  might 
he  not  offer  his  heart,  his  love,  and  his  name,  to  shield 
her — as  far  as  it  is  given  to  one  mortal  to  shield  another 
— from  so  much  of  pain  and  suffering  ?  But  it  gave  him 
a  horrible  pang  to  think  of  this  little  tender  child  having 
been  at  the  mercy  of  another  man.  He  would  not  doubt 
her. 

"  If  she  were  not  spotless  and  innocent,"  he  reasoned  to 
himself,  "she  would  never  have  made  such  a  confession. 
Though  she  talks  so  bitterly  of  her  wickedness  and  folly, 
I  would  stake  my  life  she  is  ignorant  of  the  construction 

the  world  would  put  on  her  words.  Oh,  if  that No, 

he  must  be  an  honorable  man,  though  I  feel  so  bitter 
against  him.  If  she  had  never  seen  him,  and  could  have 
given  me  half  of  that  passionate  worship  her  poor  lavish 
N  17 


I94 


DOLORES. 


little  heart  wasted  on  him,  how  happy  I  might  have  been 
once  again  !  Even  as  it  is,  I  feel  it  would  be  almost  hap- 
piness to  be  able  to  protect  her  from  all  external  harm 
and  suffering.  What  is  to  become  of  the  child,  living 
here  without  society  and  companionship,  having  no  one 
but  Marcelline?  She  seems  a  good,  sensible  creature, 
and  I  am  sure  she  loves  the  child ;  but  what  an  existence 
for  a  young  girl  who  should  be  just  beginning  life  with  a 
host  of  joyous  anticipations  !" 

As  a  rule,  Captain  Etherege  told  his  sister  everything 
that  concerned  him,  sure  of  her  loving,  sisterly  affection  ; 
but  on  the  subject  of  Dolores  he  was  silent,  and  told  her 
nothing. 

One  morning  a  letter  came  from  an  old  friend.  He 
was  in  delicate  health,  was  going  to  the  south  of  France 
for  the  winter,  and  being  obliged  to  remain  a  few  days  in 
Paris,  had  written  to  ask  Captain  Etherege  to  join  him 
there. 

"  I  am  quite  alone,"  he  wrote,  "  and  feel  very  wretched 
and  nervous  about  myself.  My  brother  is  to  join  me  in 
a  few  days,  but  meantime  I  am  so  hipped  and  dull,  my 
life  is  a  burden.  For  the  sake  of  old  times,  do,  like  a 
good  fellow,  take  pity  upon  me,  and  if  you  can  spare  a 
week  from  that  exciting  place  in  which  you  are  at  present 
stagnating,  you  will  earn  my  eternal  gratitude." 

Unable  to  resist  such  an  appeal,  Philip  had  his  port- 
manteau packed,  and  went  off  by  the  afternoon  train. 
Dolores  ran  in  to  pay  her  accustomed  visit  a  few  minutes 
after  his  departure. 

"Philip  left  all  kinds  of  messages  for  you,"  said  Mary 
Etherege ;  "he  has  gone  to  Paris." 

"To  Paris  !"  repeated  Dolores,  her  face  falling  visibly. 

"Yes,  dear,  for  a  week;  so  you  must  take  pity  on  me, 
and  give  me  a  good  deal  of  your  company  the  next  few 


A  LETTS X. 


'95 


days.  I  dare  say  the  change  will  do  him  good,  poor  fel- 
low. I  am  afraid  he  finds  this  place  dull,  but  he  is  so 
kind  and  good,  he  would  never  say  so,  because  he  knows 
I  enjoy  being  here." 

"I  need  not  have  been  unhappy  about  his  caring  too 
much  for  me,"  sighed  Dolores  to  herself.  "I  don't  be- 
lieve men  know  what  it  is  to  love  really." 

"  Philip's  has  been  a  sad  life,"  Miss  Etherege  went  on 
presently.  "Did  you  know  he  had  been  married,  Do- 
lores?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  starting. 

"It  is  a  very  sad  story.  I  hate  to  talk  about  it,  but 
somehow  I  fancy  he  wants  you  to  know." 

"And  did  his  wife  die?"  asked  Dolores,  solemnly. 

"No." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mary  Etherege  fidgeted  about  a 
little,  and  arranged  the  things  on  her  writing-table. 

"  I  hate  to  talk  about  it,"  she  repeats  presently,  almost 
irritably  for  her.  "She  was  a  bad,  wicked  woman,  and 
God  forgive  me,  but  I  cannot  forgive  her. ' ' 

Turning,  she  sees  Dolores's  eyes  fixed  wonderingly 
upon  her. 

"  It  is  so  difficult  to  tell  a  little  innocent  creature  like 
you,"  she  pursues.  "I  dare  say  you  never  even  heard 
the  word  divorce?" 

Dolores  shakes  her  head.  Mary  Etherege  feels  a  great 
difficulty  in  continuing  her  narrative. 

"Well,"  she  says  at  last,  "when  people  are  married, 
and  one  is  untrue  to  the  other,  they  can  be  separated  by 
law:  that  is  called  being  divorced.  It  means  the  mar- 
riage is  annulled — the  husband  and  wife  are  no  more  to 
each  other  than  if  they  had  never  been  married." 

"And  was  some  one  once  untrue  to  Philip — to  Cap- 
tain Etherege,  I  mean?"  And  the  girl  blushes. 


196  DOLORES. 

"Yes,"  replies  the  sister,  bitterly;  "and  yet  he  was 
the  kindest,  the  most  indulgent  husband  in  the  world." 

"Is  it  long  ago?" 

"  More  than  two  years ;  and,  until  he  saw  you,  he  could 
never  bear  to  speak  to  a  woman.  I  think  you  have  cured 
him  of  that." 

"  Oh  !"     And  Dolores  heaves  a  deep  sigh. 

She  went  home  with  a  new  interest  in  Captain  Etherege, 
saying  to  herself,  "  We  have  both  had  our  sorrows,  we 
should  not  expect  too  much  of  each  other ;  we  can  neither 
of  us  love  any  more."  Old  reasoning  for  such  a  child; 
but  sorrow  soon  makes  the  heart  old.  And  the  days  that 
he  was  away  seemed  so  long  and  dreary,  she  felt  as  if  it 
was  quite  impossible  to  go  back  to  the  old  life  without 
him.  If  he  went  away  for  a  few  months,  what  a  great 
miserable  blank  there  would  be  again  !  Would  it  not  be 
better  to  make  sure  of  having  him  always  near  her  ?  And 
now  that  he  was  away,  and  she  missed  him  so  much,  she 
began  to  think  she  loved  him.  She  longed  for  him  to 
come  back,  she  counted  the  hours  until  the  week  should 
be  over,  and  the  more  she  doubted  if  he  really  cared  for 
her,  the  more  she  felt  drawn  towards  him. 

Then  when  he  did  come  back,  as  she  and  Mary  Etherege 
were  sitting  together  over  the  firelight,  when  she  saw  his 
kind  eyes  looking  gladly  into  hers,  when  she  heard  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  and  felt  the  loving  pressure  of  his 
hand,  she  was  almost  happy,  and  said  to  herself,  "Yes,  I 
know  I  shall  love  him."  A  little  later,  when  Mary 
Etherege  was  out  of  the  room,  Dolores  put  one  hand 
shyly  on  his,  and  said, — 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  back.  It  seemed  quite 
dull  and  changed  without  you." 

"  Are  you  glad — really  glad,  child  ?"  he  asked,  quickly 
turning  to  her. 


A  LETTER. 


197 


"Yes,  really." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  said, — 

"  Have  you  ever  thought,  while  I  have  been  away,  of 
what  I  once  said  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

"  Has  Mary  told  you  about — about  my  past  life?  Tell 
me,  child,  will  you  have  my  love?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  simply. 

"Darling,"  he  said,  hardly  satisfied,  "are  you  quite 
sure  in  your  own  mind?  Don't  take  me  out  of  pity.  I 
would  rather  never  see  your  dear  face  again  than  think 
you  might  some  day  regret  what  you  had  done." 

"I  shall  not  regret,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  We  have  both  been  sad,  you  and  I ;  we  shall  not  expect 
too  much  from  each  other." 

He  kissed  her  a  little  sadly,  and  she  felt  a  tranquil  con- 
tent that  was  not  love,  and  yet  was  a  sort  of  happiness. 
It  was  a  strange  wooing  and  acceptance  for  a  girl  of  seven- 
teen, was  it  not?  So  it  was  settled  that  Captain  Etherege 
and  Dolores  were  to  marry  each  other.  His  sister  was 
surprised,  but  very  glad,  and  Marcelline  was  divided  be- 
tween exuberant  pleasure  and  anxious  doubts.  They  were 
not  to  be  married  just  yet,  it  was  decided — Dolores  was  so 
young,  and  Philip  was  too  diffident  and  uncertain  of  hex 
feelings  to  wish  to  hasten  the  marriage.  Before  she  had 
consented  to  be  his  wife,  he  had  believed  it  would  be 
sufficient  happiness  only  to  have  her;  now  he  had  the 
most  ardent  desire  that  she  should  love  him,  not  luke- 
warmly, as  he  felt  she  did,  but  dearly,  passionately,  as  she 
had  loved  that  other  man.  Oh,  how  the  recollection  of 
him  rankled  in  Philip's  heart ! 

A  month  passed,  during  which  Dolores  felt  happier  than 
she  had  ever  been  before,  except  during  the  time  of  her 
fitful  wild  joy  in  the  presence  of  Guy.  Philip  was  so 

17* 


igg  DOLORES. 

good,  he  provided  a  thousand  pleasures  for  her;  it  was 
even  arranged — oh,  greatest  happiness  of  all ! — that  he 
was  to  take  her  and  his  sister  to  Paris  for  a  week.  Dolores 
clapped  her  hands  with  a  return  of  the  old  childish  delight, 
and  he  began  to  feel  more  confident  of  ultimately  winning 
her  love. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu  !  what  it  is  to  be  young  and  have  rich 
lovers!"  cried  Marcelline  one  day,  with  a  beaming  face, 
when  Dolores  showed  her  the  diamond  ring  that  Captain 
Etherege  had  given  her  as  the  pledge  of  their  engage- 
ment. "  I  told  you  once,  little  one,  when  you  de- 
sponded, that  some  day  good  fortune  would  come  to 
you ;  and  see  how  the  bon  Dieu  makes  everything  right. 
As  for  M.  le  Capitaine,  he  is  an  angel  of  goodness — he 
is  like  pictures  of  the  blessed  Saint  Jean — he  is  the  man, 
par  exemple,  to  make  a  good  husband.  Ah,  how  much 
better  to  have  such  a  man  as  that,  who  is  not  young 
and  giddy,  and  would  not  want  to  be  always  looking 
round  for  the  pretty  faces  of  other  women,  to  break  your 
heart!" 

Dolores  did  not  answer.  She  was  looking  out  thought- 
fully at  the  cold  winter  scene;  and,  when  she  turned, 
Marcelline  saw  that  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Fi done,  mademoiselle!"  she  cried,  briskly — "tears! 
why  tears,  I  should  wish  to  know  ?  Tiens  !  look  at  these 
big  frozen  drops  in  your  beautiful  ring,  like  the  fairy- 
story  of  the  little  princess  whose  tears  were  turned  into 
diamonds.  That  was  well  worth  crying  for;  but  yours 
are  but  poor  worthless  drops  of  salt  water,  that  only  make 
your  pretty  eyes  red  and  sore.  Mon  Dieu  !  to  cry  because 
one  has  a  rich,  generous  lover !  Oh,  what  a  silly  child  ! 
And  M.  le  Capitaine  is  a  fine,  handsome  man,  Men  en~ 
tendu"  she  rattled  on. 

"Marcelline,"  said  the  child,  sadly,  putting  her  arms 


THE  REAL   PICTURE. 


I99 


round  her  faithful  friend's  neck,  "I  am  not  worthy  of 
him,  and  that  makes  me  miserable." 

"  La,  la,  la !"  cried  Marcelline,  touched,  but  obstinately 
refusing  to  display  any  soft  feeling;  "what  silly  fancies 
are  these?  I'll  answer  he  thinks  you  good  enough.  I 
dare  say,  if  one  only  knew,  he  is  fretting  because  he 
thinks  himself  unworthy  of  you.  So  it  is  always  with 
those  foolish  lovers  who  make  so  much  of  each  other. 
They  don't  trouble  their  heads  about  not  being  good 
enough  after  the  priest  has  once  joined  their  hands." 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

THE  REAL   PICTURE. 

THE  day  was  fixed  for  the  visit  to  Paris,  and  Dolores 
was  in  quite  an  excited  state  at  the  thought  of  it,  when  a 
summons  came  for  Miss  Etherege  to  go  to  one  of  her 
sisters,  who  was  ill.  When  Dolores  heard  the  news,  her 
disappointment  was  so  grievous,  and  she  showed  it  so  un- 
mistakably in  her  face,  that  Philip  felt  she  should  not  and 
must  not  be  thwarted. 

"  Molly,"  he  whispered,  "  why  should  not  Dolores  and 
I  go  to  Paris,  and  take  Marcelline  with  us  for  chaperon?" 

Mary  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  I  do  not  see  any  objection  at  all,"  she  answered,  after 
a  slight  pause. 

So  it  was  decided ;  and  when  Dolores  told  Marcelline 
the  news,  she  danced  ibout  the  room  with  the  childish 
gayety  of  old  times. 


200  DOLORES. 

The  faithful  servant's  heart  throbbed  with  pleasure  at 
sight  of  this  unwonted  merriment ;  her  honest  face  beamed 
with  delight,  but  she  could  not  refrain  from  saying,  a  little 
maliciously, — 

"  Tiens!  is  this  the  demoiselle  who  wanted  to  be  a  nun 
— who  was  never  going  to  be  happy  again  all  the  days  of 
her  life?" 

"Unkind  Marcelline!"  pouted  the  child.  "Do  you 
rail  at  me  because  I  am  happy?" 

Marcelline' s  answer  is  to  take  the  fair  face  between  her 
brown  hands  and  imprint  a  sounding  kiss  upon  each 
cheek.  Then  she  trots  off  into  the  kitchen,  where,  in  the 
exuberance  of  her  delight,  she  cannot  help  confiding  to 
Jeanneton  the  news  of  her  impending  visit  to  Paris.  Is 
not  Paris  the  El  Dorado  of  every  Frenchwoman,  gentle  or 
simple,  young  or  old  ? 

"Ah  !"  says  Jeanneton,  pausing  in  her  work,  and  look- 
ing enviously  at  Marcelline's  triumphant  face,  "  thou  wilt 
see  Paris,  thou.  Well,  my  girl,  that  will  be  a  happy  day 
for  thee.  And  thou  wilt  see  the  gardens  where  I  used  to 
dance,  and  the  houses  where  we  supped  afterwards  (though 
they  say  many  of  them  are  pulled  down),  when  I  was  the 
gayest  grisette  in  all  the  quartier.  Ah !  there  are  no 
more  grisettes  now  like  then.  I  remember,  too,  there 
were  many  English  there ;  fine  men  they  were,  and  gener- 
ous. Oh,  yes,  generous,  I  tell  thee;  the  English  always 
spend  their  money  like  water.  They  had  a  fancy  for  me, 
too,  but  I  liked  the  Frenchmen  best.  But,  dis  done,  Mar- 
celline, if  the  little  demoiselle  marries  this  English  capi- 
taine,  wilt  thou  go  with  her  to  England?" 

"We  shall  see,"  replies  Marcelline,  nodding  her  head. 

"Ah,  poor  girl!"  cries  Jeanneton  with  a  spice  of 
malice,  holding  up  her  hands,  "then  I  pity  thee  in  that 
satane  Angleterre,  where  they  do  nothing  but  eat  raw 


THE   REAL   PICTURE.  2OI 

biftecks  and  get  tipsy  all  day.  Pauvres  diables  !  I  suppose 
they  are  forced  to  it,  or  they  would  all  hang  themselves, 
through  living  in  a  weather  as  thick  as  bouillon" 

"Ah!  it  is  because  thou  knowest  nothing  better  that 
thou  throwest  me  those  niaiseries  at  the  nose,"  retorts 
Marcelline.  "Would  the  English  be  such  a  fine  race, 
thinkest  thou,  if  all  one  says  of  them  were  true  ?  Does 
M.  le  Capitaine  look  as  if  he  drank  all  day?" 

"Ah  !  but  he  looks  as  if  he  had  the  spleen.  If  I  were 
Mademoiselle,  I  would  rather  have  married  the  cure's 
brother,  who  used  to  come  in  the  spring.  He  was  a  fine, 
gay-looking  gentleman,  that !" 

"Peste,  ma  bonne!"  cries  Marcelline,  disconcerted. 
"  I  begin  to  think  thee  blind  as  well  as  deaf.  The  cure's 
brother  was  not  to  be  looked  at  beside  M.  le  Capitaine." 

"Blind 7"  echoes  Jeanneton,  angrily.  "  Thou  wouldst 
have  it,  perhaps,  that  my  senses  are  failing  me  already ! 
I  wager  there  is  not  more  than  five  years'  difference 
between  thee  and  me." 

"  Diable  /"  exclaims  the  other  angrily,  "  what  would 
the  woman  have  !  Thou  art  beautiful  as  an  angel,  young 
as  a  rose-bud,  innocent  as  a  dove.  Does  that  satisfy 
thee?" 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  but  thou  hast  a  temper,"  retorts  Jeanne- 
ton.  "  However,  I  wish  thee  no  worse  than  to  go  to  that 
satane  Angleterre" 

Captain  Etherege,  Dolores,  and  Marcelline  were  in 
Paris,  and  a  very  happy  trio  they  made.  It  seemed  like 
enchantment  to  the  child  as  she  drove  in  the  Bois,  wan- 
dered about  the  streets,  contemplating,  with  wondering, 
wide-open  eyes,  the  treasures  displaced  in  the  shops,  or 
sat,  with  rapt  attention,  in  the  theatre,  laughing  and  cry- 
ing by  turns,  and  calling  on  Marcelline,  who  sat,  the 
i* 


202  DOLORES. 

picture  of  a  discreet  chaperon,  in  the  back  of  the  box,  to 
sympathize  with  her  ecstasy  or  horror. 

To  Philip  it  was  like  the  glimpse  of  a  new  life  to  be 
with  this  gay  creature — to  watch  her  enthusiasm,  her  rap- 
tures, and  to  feel  this  bright  young  life  would  in  the  happy 
future,  that  he  almost  trembled  to  think  of,  be  made  one 
with  his.  Yes,  he  trembled  at  this  joy — it  was  so  keen ; 
he  could  not,  dared  not  believe  it  would  last.  Like  those 
who  have  suffered — who  know  the  duration  of  happiness 
can  but  be,  ah !  so  short — he  tried  to  disarm  Fate  by 
forecasting  sorrow ;  he  said  constantly  to  himself  it  cannot 
last,  hoping  against  hope  that,  because  he  put  no  faith  in 
the  future,  it  might  for  once  be  gentle  to  him. 

On  the  fifth  morning  of  their  stay  in  Paris,  as  Dolores 
poured  out  the  coffee  for  Captain  Etherege,  she  looked  at 
him  timidly,  saying,  with  her  sweet  little  French  accent,— 

"Philippe." 

"Well,  darling?" 

"  Will  you  take  me  to-day  to  the  Louvre?" 

"Will  I? — of  course  I  will!"  And  he  looks  at  the 
dimpling,  smiling  face  with  a  happy  sense  of  how  glad  a 
thing  it  is,  and  will  be,  to  gratify  every  wish  of  that  ten- 
der little  heart.  "You  are  getting  tired  of  the  shops,  I 
suppose,  and  want  an  intellectual  treat?" 

"I  should  never,  never  be  tired  of  the  shops,"  she  re- 
plies, enthusiastically,  "and  I  don't  know  anything  about 
pictures ;  but — but ' '  And  a  rosy  flush  suffuses  her  face. 

"  Ah !  I  remember,"  interrupts  Philip,  a  twinge  passing 
through  his  heart  at  the  recollection  ;  "  you  want  to  see 
'LaCruche  Cassee' ?" 

Dolores  answers  by  a  little  nod. 

"So  you  shall,"  he  responds,  heartily;  "but,"  rising 
and  going  over  to  her,  "  the  little  girl  in  the  picture  is 
not  one-fiftieth  part  as  pretty  as  you." 


THE  REAL   PICTURE. 


203 


He  takes  the  small  white  face  between  his  hands,  and 
looks  into  the  clear,  pure  depths  of  the  violet  eyes :  to 
him,  at  least,  it  is  a  fairer  face  than  limner's  art  can  paint. 
He  longs  to  kiss  that  little  rose-bud  of  a  mouth,  as  he 
longs  a  hundred  times  every  day,  only  he  .has  a  great 
dread  of  wearying  and  disgusting  her;  so  he  only  strokes 
the  bright  hair  tenderly,  saying, — 

"  When  shall  we  start?" 

"  When  you  like — now,  at  once.  I  will  run  and  make 
my  toilette."  And  she  trips  off  with  great  jubilance  to 
Marcelline. 

"  My  dear  M.  Philippe  is  going  to  take  me  to  see  my 
portrait !"  she  cries,  bursting  into  the  room,  and  flinging 
herself  upon  her  nurse  with  an  enthusiasm  that  causes  the 
sturdy  frame  to  sway  to  and  fro. 

"  Tiens  /"  cries  Marcelline,  reprovingly ;  "what  a  mad- 
cap !  A  fine  wife  for  a  big,  grave  gentleman  like  M.  le 
Capitaine !" 

"  Old  cross-patch  1"  says  the  child,  releasing  her  with  a 
pout. 

"  Well,  well — but  what  portait?" 

"  Why,  the  picture  that — that,"  and  the  blush  re -appears 
—"that — oh,  you  know,  Marcelline." 

Marcelline  looks  grave,  and  shakes  her  head. 

"What,  dost  thou  think  still  of  that  nonsense?" 

"Why  should  I  not  like  to  see  the  picture?"  fires  up 
Dolores.  "I  only  want  to  know  if  it  is  like  me." 

"If  it  is  only "  utters  Marcelline,  relenting. 

"  What  else  should  it  be  ?"  angrily.  "  Am  I  not  going 
to  marry  M.  Etherege  ?  What  are  all  the  other  men  in 
the  world  tome?" 

"It  might  bring  back  thoughts,"  says  discreet  Mar- 
celline. 

"You  are  a  silly  old  woman !     If  I  were  to  see  him 


204  DOLORES. 

twenty  times  over,"  with  flashing  eyes — "I  should  not 
care  for  him  again." 

"That  is  well,"  says  Marcelline,  approvingly.  "And 
now,  my  child,  be  quick  and  dress,  that  you  may  not  keep 
M.  le  Capitaine  waiting." 

Half  an  hour  later  Dolores  is  traversing  the  long  galleries 
of  the  Louvre,  wonderingly,  admiringly.  Philip  does  not 
remember  in  what  room  the  picture  of  their  quest  is  situa- 
ted, so  they  wander  through  a  great  many,  and  see  a  vast 
number  of  pictures,  before  they  arrive  at  "La  Cruche 
Cassee."  Dolores  has  never  been  in  a  picture-gallery 
before,  and  wants  to  stand  about  half  an  hour  in  front  of 
each  picture  that  takes  her  fancy.  She  shivers  with  horror 
at  "The  Deluge,"  "The  Shipwreck,"  "The  Russian 
Campaign ;"  she  is  immensely  disconcerted  in  the  presence 
of  Rubens's  fat,  indecent  women,  from  which  Philip  hurries 
her  away,  and  considerably  bored  by  the  productions  of 
the  ancient  masters. 

"We  have  been  here  an  hour  and  a  half,"  says  Philip, 
looking  at  his  watch,  "and  have  not  found  our  picture 
yet.  Suppose  you  ask  one  of  the  officials  to  direct  us. 
I'm  always  ashamed  of  airing  my  bad  French  before  you." 

"Oh,  but  indeed  you  speak  quite,  quite  well,"  returns 
Dolores,  not  adhering  strictly  to  the  truth,  in  her  terror 
at  the  thought  of  addressing  a  strange  and  stern-looking 
individual;  "and  I" 

"Very  well,"  says  Philip.  "If  he  cannot  understand  me 
you  must  help  me  out."  And  without  more  ado  he  puts 
his  question,  with  an  air  of  assurance  and  composure  that 
he  is  far  from  feeling,  and  receives  the  necessary  directions. 

"  Here  we  are  !"  exclaims  Captain  Etherege,  pulling  up 
suddenly  in  front  of  the  object  of  their  search ;  "  or,  I 
suppose,  I  ought  to  say,  « Here  you  are  ! '  " 

Dolores  stands  and  gazes,  and  Philip  looks  alternately 


THE  REAL  PICTURE.  205 

from  her  to  the  picture,  and  from  the  picture  to  her.  His 
mind  is  soon  made  up. 

"There  is  a  look,  certainly,"  he  pronounces;  "but," 
with  great  emphasis,  "she  isn't  to  be  named  in  the  same 
day  with  you.  What  do  you  say?"  after  a  pause,  as 
Dolores  still  continues  to  gaze. 

But  she  does  not  hear  him ;  her  thoughts  are  far  away — 
in  the  old  garden  under  the  apple-trees,  where  he  saw  her 
first — where  he  sat  with  her — where  he  painted  her.  Only  a 
couple  of  hours  ago  she  had  told  Marcelline  that,  were  she 
to  see  him  twenty  times  over,  he  would  be  nothing  to  her; 
and  now  she  sees,  hears,  feels  him  in  every  nerve,  as  in 
those  old  days  the  picture  has  brought  back  to  her  mind. 
Presently  she  turns  away,  with  dim  eyes  and  a  short,  stifled 
sob  in  her  throat — turns,  and  is  face  to  face  with  the  man 
of  whom  her  heart  is  full.  Poor  little  girl !  her  nerves  are 
overstrung — it  is  so  sudden  ;  she  is  not  mistress  of  herself. 
A  short,  sharp  cry — a  movement  towards  him — and  she 
would  have  fallen  prone  at  his  feet,  but  that  Guy  catches 
her  in  his  arms.  It  is  the  work  of  an  instant,  this  strange 
tableau.  Fortunately  it  has  but  few  spectators,  and  these 
few  are  only  aware  that  a  young  girl  has  fainted,  and  is 
being  supported  by  a  man  who  looks  quite  equal  to  the 
task.  They  do  not  crowd  round,  but  look  askance  with 
a  certain  interest. 

"  Oh,  Guy,  what  is  this  ?  Is  it  some  friend  of  yours  ?" 
asks  a  sympathetic  woman's  voice;  and,  Guy  having 
carried  his  burden  to  a  seat,  the  owner  of  the  voice  pro- 
ceeds to  untie  the  bonnet-string  and  loosen  the  fastenings 
round  the  child's  throat  and  waist. 

"Yes,"  responds  Guy,  very  flushed  and  anxious,  as 
strong  men  usually  are  at  sight  of  a  fainting  woman. 

And  all  this  time  Philip  is  standing  speechless,  whilst 
these  strangers  take  his  life,  his  darling,  out  of  his  hands 

18 


106  DOLORES. 

— take  her  from  him  forever,  he  feels,  with  a  desperate 
pain  at  his  heart. 

"Is  she  used  to  these  attacks?"  the  lady  appeals  to 
Philip. 

"Yes — no — I  think  not,"  he  answers,  confusedly, 
gazing  with  terror  at  the  white  face,  and  yet  conscious  of 
a  fierce  wish  that  she  might  never  wake  again,  if  she  is  to 
be  taken  from  him.  He  knows  by  instinct  who  this  man 
is,  and  why  the  sight  of  him  has  overcome  Dolores. 

At  this  moment  her  eyes  unclose — vacant  and  dull  at 
first ;  then  a  frightened  look  comes  into  them,  and  she 
puts  out  a  hand  to  Guy. 

"  Oh,  take  care  of  me — do  not  leave  me  !"  she  whispers, 
imploringly. 

What  tortures  some  folk  are  made  to  suffer  in  this  life  ! 
I  wonder  what  Philip  had  done  to  deserve  this? 

Guy  feels  the  awkwardness  of  the  position.  He  does 
not  know  who  Dolores's  companion  is,  but  feels,  somehow, 
that  he  is  in  love  with  her,  and  that  he  is  suffering  cruelly. 
Milly  Charteris,  who  is  Guy's  companion,  has,  with  her 
usual  tact,  guessed  the  position. 

"No,"  she  answers,  soothingly,  "we  will  not  leave 
you.  Come,  you  are  much  better  already.  We  have  a 
carriage  here,"  —  turning  to  Philip.  "Will  it  not  be 
best  for  me  to  take  her  home?  I  think  in  these  cases" — 
and  she  smiles  her  own  winning,  gracious  smile — "a 
woman's  care  is  the  thing.  Shall  I  go  with  her,  and  stay 
until  you  come?" 

"Thank  you,"  answers  Captain  Etherege.  "If  you 

will  be  so  good  as  to  take  Miss  Power  to  the  Hotel , 

her  maid  is  there,  and  will  take  every  care  of  her,  until 
"  "Until  I  come,"  he  was  going  to  say,  but  he 
dreaded  seeing  Dolores  by  herself,  and  had  half  made  up 
his  mind  to  flee  from  Paris  altogether. 


THE  REAL  PICTURE.  207 

"Lean  on  my  arm,"  says  Mrs.  Charteris,  kindly;  and 
Dolores  rises,  faint  and  trembling,  and  does  as  she  is 
told. 

"I  think  we  must  have  you  the  other  side,"  Milly 
remarks  to  Philip ;  and  he  mechanically  draws  the  little 
hand  (reluctant,  he  feels  painfully)  within  his  arm.  Guy 
brings  up  the  rear. 

When  they  are  in  the  carriage,  Dolores  gives  a  little 
feeble  smile  to  Philip,  and  says,  "Thank  you,  I  am 
better  ;"  then  a  violent  blush  crimsons  her  white  face  as 
Guy  shakes  her  by  the  hand,  and  she  whispers,  "You 
a//// come  and  see  me?" 

"  Certainly  I  will ;"  and  they  drive  off.  The  two  men 
are  left  staring  blankly  at  each  other,  feeling  something 
must  be  said,  not  knowing  what,  or  how  to  say  it,  and 
wishing  themselves  a  thousand  miles  away.  Guy  is  the 
first  to  break  the  silence. 

"It  is  some  time  since  I  saw  Miss  Power.  I — I  am 
afraid  by  her  dress  she  has  had  some  loss.  I — I  presume 
I  have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  a  relation,  or " 

"No  relation,"  Captain  Etherege  returns,  coldly.  "I 

was "  with  slight  emphasis.  For  the  life  of  him  he 

cannot  say,  "I  am  engaged  to  be  married  to  Miss 
Power." 

"Let  me  congratulate  you,"  says  Guy,  ignoring  the 
was,  and  trying  to  put  some  heartiness  into  his  voice. 
"  Miss  Power  is  so  charming  and  amiable,  and " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  interrupts  Philip,  with  cold 
politeness,  "  if  I  remind  you  I  am  quite  ignorant  to  whom 
I  have  the  honor  of  speaking." 

"  Oh !  of  course,  to  be  sure,  I  ought  to  have  remem- 
bered." And  Guy  dives  into  his  breast-pocket,  and  pro- 
duces a  card  from  his  note-book. 

As  Philip  reads  the  pain  at  his  heart  grows  sharper. 


208  DOLORES. 

So  then  this  man  has  rank  and  wealth  in  addition  to  his 
handsome  person.  He  knows  the  name  well  enough,  and 
remembers  shooting  years  ago  at  Wentworth  when  the 
baronet  was  a  schoolboy. 

He  has  given  up  carrying  cards;  he  sees  no  society; 
he  hates  even  the  sound  of  the  name  that  has  been  so 
bitterly  disgraced. 

"I  have  no  card  with  me,"  he  says;  "my  name  is 
Etherege." 

"Oh,  Etherege  of  the  — th?"  asks  Guy,  who  is  igno- 
rant of  the  painful  story  attached  to  it. 

"I  was  in  the  — th,"  Philip  replies,  stiffly. 

"  I  have  two  or  three  tremendous  friends  in  it.  Your 
name  seems  so  familiar  to  me,  I  am  sure  I  must  have 
heard  them  speak  of  you." 

"Possibly." 

Guy  is  rather  at  a  loss  what  to  say  next.  He  stands 
for  a  moment  tapping  his  boot  with  his  stick,  then  blurts 
out, — 

"I  suppose  Mrs.-Power's  death  was  rather  sudden." 

"Quite  sudden — heart-disease.  Did  you  know  her 
well  ?"  eying  him  narrowly. 

Guy  reddens  under  his  gaze ;  a  guilty,  confused  feel- 
ing overtakes  him. 

"  No,  indeed — in  fact,  I  never  saw  her.  My  acquaint- 
ance with  her  daughter  was "  Oh,  hang  it !  he  ejac- 
ulates mentally,  how  the  deuce  am  I  to  explain  to  him  ? 

Captain  Etherege's  lips  are  severely  compressed,  a  feel- 
ing of  hatred  comes  into  his  heart,  and  he  says,  with  his 
brows  bent  deeply  together, — 

"I  take  it  you  are  the  gentleman  who  painted  Miss 
Power's  portrait  some  twelve  months  ago?" 

"Yes,"  replies  the  other,  more  uncomfortable  than 
ever.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  have  heard  about  the 


THE  REAL   PICTURE.  209 

matter,  but  of  course,  in  your  position,  you  have  a  per- 
fect right  to  ask  for  an  explanation,  and  I  shall  be  very 
glad  to  give  it  you — only"  (looking  round)  "this  isn't 
quite  a  convenient  spot  for  private  talk." 

"No,"  Captain  Etherege  assents.  "But  don't  mis- 
understand me.  I  neither  consider  myself  entitled  to  ask 
an  explanation,  nor  do  I  ask  one;  but  there  are  some 
things  I  should  be  glad  to  say  to  you.  Will  it  be  con- 
venient for  me  to  call  upon  you,  or " 

"By  all  means.     What  time  will  suit  you  best?" 

"Five  o'clock." 

Guy  remembers  that  he  has  promised  to  take  Milly  to 
make  a  call  at  that  hour.  He  would  not  break  an  en- 
gagement made  with  her  for  the  most  important  business 
in  the  world. 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  engaged  all  the  afternoon,"  he 
answers.  ' :  Will  it  be  very  inconvenient  to  you  to  say 
this  evening?" 

"  I  should  prefer  it." 

"Nine  o'clock,  then,  if  that  suits  you." 

"Nine  be  it." 

Their  eyes  meet  for  a  moment,  they  raise  their  hats  to 
each  other  with  a  distant  ceremony  such  as  Englishmen 
rarely  use,  then  they  part  with  a  feeling  of  intense  relief. 


HO  DOLORES. 

CHAPTER    XXII. 

WHAT   FATE   DECREES. 

PHILIP  walks  away  fast,  knows  not,  cares  not,  whither, 
except  that  he  desires  to  get  away  from  his  kind.  The 
bustle  of  the  streets,  the  cheery  looks  of  the  light-hearted 
folk  who  walk  briskly  by  him  in  quest  of  business  or 
pleasure — nay,  the  bright  sunshine  itself — all  are  hateful 
to  him;  he  would  fain  get  away  from  them  all.  If  he 
could  only  get  away  from  himself!  He  turns  his  steps 
mechanically  across  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  up  the 
Champs  Elys6es,  bethinking  him  vaguely  of  some  long, 
dim,  desolate  alleys  that  he  has  glanced  down  when 
driving  in  the  Bois  with  Dolores.  He  will  not  think  yet ; 
he  must  be  alone  first ;  and  he  hurries  on,  on,  on,  until 
he  reaches  his  goal. 

The  perspiration  is  streaming  from  his  face,  and  some 
French  nurses,  who  are  airing  their  little  charges  in  the 
sun,  laugh,  and  point  at  him  for  a  crazy  Englishman. 

He  has  got  away  from  every  one  now,  from  the  sun- 
shine too;  the  jealous  pines  shut  out  Phoebus'  warm, 
inquisitive  glances,  and  he  is  as  much  alone  as  if  he  were 
a  thousand  miles  from  the  habitations  and  haunts  of  men. 

"Oh,  fool,  fool,  fool !"  he  groans  to  himself  in  a  rage 
of  pain.  "After  all  these  years'  experience  of  life,  to 
dream  there  was  anything  in  store  for  you  but  bitterness 
and  disappointment !  To  think  that  you,  old,  worn  as 
you  are,  were  a  fitting  companion  for  that  bright  young 
life!" 

He  stands  leaning  against  the  stiff,  straight  stem  of  a 


WHA  T  FA  TE  DECREES.  2 1 1 

pine-tree,  devoured  with  furious  pain  and  self-contempt, 
trying  to  staunch  his  agony  with  bitter,  angry  taunts 
against  his  own  folly.  It  would  be  a  relief,  he  thinks,  in 
his  dumb  suffering,  to  fling  himself  on  the  earth,  to  tear 
his  flesh  with  his  nails,  to  drag  his  hair  out  by  the  roots,  to 
indulge  himself  in  an  ecstasy  of  bodily  abandonment  and 
anguish,  after  old  Eastern  fashion,  if  it  were  not  for  that 
proud  instinct  that  makes  the  cultured  European  and  the 
wild  savage  alike  indomitable  in  their  courage  of  silent 
suffering. 

The  blow  he  had  deprecated  has  fallen,  and  he  knows 
that  no  whit  has  he  under-estimated  its  effect.  Until  he 
loved  this  child  he  had  lived  fearless  of  what  the  morrow 
might  bring  forth,  since  he  had  no  joys  of  which  Fate 
might  rob  him.  From  the  day  when  he  had  known  she 
might  be  his,  he  had  felt  as  though  he  stood  between 
heaven  and  hell,  impotent  to  raise  himself  to  the  one  or 
save  himself  from  the  other.  He  knows  the  worst  now, 
and  the  fact  that  he  has  all  along  feared  and  dreaded  it 
makes  the  blow  no  lighter.  Better,  after  all,  a  fool's 
paradise  than  to  have  enjoyed  neither  anticipation  nor 
fruition. 

He  would  like  to  leave  Paris  at  once,  never  to  see 
Dolores  any  more;  but  that  is  impossible  until  he  is 
assured  that  her  other  friends  will  take  her  under  their 
care.  A  new  thought  strikes  him.  This  man,  who  won 
and  flung  her  love  aside  with  equal  indifference — what 
reason  was  there  to  suppose  he  would  occupy  himself  with 
her  future  now  any  more  than  he  had  done  before  ?  It 
was  a  chance  meeting — his  manner  had  been  only  just  so 
kind  as  the  occasion  demanded — he  had  promised  at  her 
request  to  go  and  see  her — that  was  all. 

That  was  all ;  yes,  all !  as  though  that  all  did  not  con- 
tain the  severance  of  Philip  from  his  one  ewe-lamb,  hi* 


212  DOLORES. 

all  of  hope  and  promise  in  the  future.  His  thoughts  will 
wander  off — he  cannot,  cannot  bring  them  to  the  point 
of  what  work  lies  for  him  in  the  next  few  hours.  He  will 
see  the  child — he  will  not  see  her — he  will  arrange  all 
with  Marcelline  and  go  off — whither  ?  leaving  a  message 
— a  simple  adieu,  or  a  few  written  words  for  her  indiffer- 
ent eyes. 

Presently  he  leaves  the  sunless  alley  of  pines,  comes 
out  into  the  broad  sunshine,  careless  alike  of  both,  and 
wends  his  slow,  homeward  way — thinking,  thinking  all 
the  while,  and  yet  unable  to  decide  on  anything.  Sud- 
denly he  remembers  his  appointment  with  Sir  Guy,  and 
his  bronzed  face  deepens  with  a  hot  flush.  Why  should 
he  see  this  man,  this  d&bonnaire)  selfish  worldling,  whose 
pastime  is  breaking  men's  and  women's  hearts?  So  we 
judge  each  other.  Whose  pain  is  like  our  pain  ? — which 
of  us  reads  in  a  smiling  face  the  heart-ache  lurking  behind. 

"Yes,"  Philip  mutters,  fiercely,  "for  her  sake  I  must 
see  him — I  must  learn  how  he  feels  to  her." 

Returning  to  the  hotel,  he  finds  the  sitting-room  un- 
tenanted.  He  rings  the  bell  and  asks  for  Marcelline.  In 
quick  answer  to  his  summons  she  appears,  but  without 
her  habitual  cheery  expression,  looking  pale,  constrained, 
and  anxious.  At  this  moment  both  feel  acutely  the  in- 
convenience of  not  having  a  common  tongue  wherein  to 
express  themselves.  Philip  is  more  conversant  with 
French  than  Marcelline  with  English,  but  the  latter  has 
by  far  the  less  mauvaise  honte.  There  are  some  things 
that  must  be  said.  So  Philip  conquers  his  hesitation, 
and  blunders  on  regardless  of  mood,  tense,  grammar, 
articles;  but  he  reaches  his  end — he  makes  Marcelline 
understand  him. 

"It  is  all  over  between  us  ;  it  was  my  fault — I  am  too 
old.  She  could  not  love  me.  She  saw  the  man  she 


WHAT  FATE  DECREES. 


213 


really  did  love — it  is  much  better  now  than  later.  You 
will  find  out  what  she  wishes  to  do ;  to  remain  or  go 
back  to  Rouen — you  will  let  me  know  to-morrow.  I  will 
arrange  everything.  I  do  not  wish  to  see  her.  Tell  her 
I  shall  never  trouble  her  any  more." 

Marcelline's  glib  tongue  is  dumb ;  she  is  smitten  with 
remorse,  as  though  she  too  had  stabbed  this  noble  heart ; 
her  thoughts  go  back  to  the  day  when  she  let  the  hand- 
some stranger  in  at  the  garden  gate — when  she  took  the 
money  to  let  him  paint  the  child,  though  every  sou  of  it 
had  gone  in  wax  candles  for  the  Virgin,  according  to  her 
vow,  and  she  feels  miserable  and  guilty. 

"It  was  the  shock  of  a  moment,"  she  says,  trying  to 
reassure  herself  and  him  at  the  same  time;  "it  will  pass 
off.  Mademoiselle  is  quite  sensible  that  the  milord  does 
not  think  of  her ;  she  is  already  angry  with  herself  for 
her  foolishness." 

One  faint  dim  shadow  of  a  hope  flits  before  Philip's 
mind,  but  lasts  no  longer  than  it  took  time  to  shape. 

"  Did  she  not  say  to  you  that  she  could  never  marry 
me  now?"  he  asks,  looking  keenly  at  her. 

The  shrewd  French  face  puckers  uneasily. 

"  One  must  not  always  listen  to  children ;  they  do  not 
know  what  is  good  for  them." 

At  this  moment  a  small  white  face  and  trembling  figure 
appears  at  the  door,  hesitates  a  moment,  and  then  comes 
forward  into  the  room.  Philip  stands  immovable  in  his 
place,  but  Marcelline  goes  quickly  out,  shutting  the  door 
softly  behind  her. 

"  Voyom  /"  she  mutters,  with  a  more  cheery  air,  "per- 
haps affairs  may  still  mend  themselves.  Poor  gentleman, 
poor  gentleman  !  Holy  Virgin  take  pity  upon  him  !" 

Dolores  comes  up  to  Philip,  stands  silently  before  him, 
with  drooped  lids  and  white,  waxen  face,  stained,  he  sees, 


2i4  DOLORES. 

with  tears ;  then,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  she  throws  her- 
self, with  a  storm  of  sobs,  at  his  feet. 

For  a  moment  he  stands  motionless,  staring  with  dull 
eyes  at  the  sweet  mass  of  quivering  womanhood  at  his 
feet,  scarcely  taking  in  the  sense  of  the  scene ;  then  he 
groans  to  himself,  in  horrible  pain,  "Oh,  God!  to  think 
this  child  should  have  to  suffer!"  and,  smitten  with  in- 
finite compassion,  he  takes  her  reluctant  form  in  his 
strong  arms,  and  places  her  beside  him  on  the  sofa. 

She  hides  her  face  in  the  cushions,  and  cries  more 
bitterly  still.  The  sound  of  it  lacerates  his  overstrung 
nerves. 

"For  pity's  sake,  leave  off  crying,  child!"  he  says, 
almost  harshly  in  his  pain.  "  Why  should  you  cry?" 

His  tone,  so  different  from  what  she  has  ever  heard  it, 
startles  her,  but  it  has  the  happy  effect  of  stopping  her 
sobs. 

"I  cry,"  she  answers,  trembling,  her  face  hidden  in 
her  hands,  "  because  I  am  so  miserable — so  wicked  and 
ungrateful.  Oh,  Philip,  you  have  been  so  good  to  me, 
and  I— I " 

"Little  one,"  he  answers,  his  voice  quite  calm  now, 
"do  not  say  one  word  against  yourself;  you  are  not  to 
dame.  How  could  you  know  ?  But  I — I  ought  to  have 
known — I  did  know,  only  I  shut  my  eyes  and  ears.  You 
see,  child," — taking  her  hand  tenderly — "even  when  one 
is  old  and  wise  in  the  world's  knowledge,  one  makes  great 
mistakes,  and  then  one  has  to  suffer  for  them.  But  the 
innocent  must  not  suffer  with  the  guilty.  Little  one," — 
earnestly — "you  must  not  be  unhappy;  you  have  all 
your  life  before  you.  I  did  not  see  it  in  the  same  light 
before," — with  a  strong  effort  and  a  choked  voice — "but 
it  would  have  been  a  crime  in  me  to  tie  your  bright  young 
life  to  mine,  worn  and  wasted  as  it  is.  And  I  can  bear  it 


WHA  T  FA  TE  DECREES.  215 

better  now,  you  know," — smiling  feebly — "than  later, 
when  you  would  have  been  the  life  of  my  life." 

The  deep  flush  in  his  face,  the  strong  beating  of  his 
heart,  belie  his  words.  But  she  is  not  thinking  much  of 
him — hardly  hears  what  he  is  saying.  She  is  wondering 
if  Guy  will  really  come  to  see  her.  Oh,  unfair,  incon- 
stant woman  mind  !  He  feels  it,  knows  it  intuitively,  and 
he  would  not  be  a  man  did  not  a  pang  of  jealousy  spring 
up  in  bitter  conflict  with  his  self-abnegation. 

"  When  I  am  gone  you  will  see  him,"  he  says,  bitterly. 

Dolores  starts,  and  a  crimson  flush  overspreads  her  pale 
cheeks. 

"  Monsieur  I"  she  begins,  haughtily ;  but  her  pride  dies 
away  in  a  moment,  and  she  returns  to  her  piteous  sobbing. 

As  Philip  looks  at  her,  his  heart  is  torn  in  twain.  For 
sheer  pity's  sake,  if  he  did  not  love  her  madly  as  he  does, 
he  would  fain  take  this  little  tender  girl  in  his  arms  and 
soothe  her ;  but  he  dares  not.  What !  to  feel  her  shrink 
from  him  ! — to  know  his  caresses  were  repulsive  to  her  1 
So  he  goes  away  to  the  window,  and  stares  listlessly  out, 
with  his  hands  pressed  against  his  head,  that  he  may  not 
hear  the  maddening  sound  of  her  sobs.  But  he  hears 
them  all  the  same. 

Presently  the  sound  ceases,  or,  rather,  becomes  inter- 
mittent, and  he  returns  to  the  sofa,  where  she  lies  with 
her  face  buried  in  the  cushions.  For  a  moment  he  stands 
looking  down  at  her — at  the  small,  lithe  figure  that  still 
heaves,  the  round  white  throat,  the  bronze  hair,  and  tiny 
shell-pink  ear ;  the  delicate  hand  clinched  against  her 
black  dress,  with  the  diamonds  (his  gift)  shining  on  it ; 
and  the  little  foot,  twisting  and  writhing  in  its  fairy- 
small  slipper.  He  looks  as  a  painter  might  look  upon  the 
fairest  thing  his  genius  ever  created,  knowing  he  should 
never  look  upon  it  again — that  it  should  never  bear  his 


2l6  DOLORES. 

name ;  and  his  teeth  clinch  involuntarily,  and  his  breath 
comes  hard.  For  a  moment  he  gives  way ;  it  is  only  for 
a  moment.  As  he  sits  down  beside  her,  and  takes  her 
hand,  he  is  strong  again. 

"Dolores,"  he  whispers,  tenderly  but  gravely,  not  the 
least  like  a  lover,  "  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me  for  a  little. 
Put  entirely  out  of  your  mind,  as  I  have  done"  (poor 
Philip!),  "that  you  and  I  were  ever  anything  to  each 
other  more  than  dear  friends,  and  hear  what  I  have  to 
say." 

She  raises  her  head,  and  looks  at  him  with  blue,  wet, 
mournful  eyes,  feeling  thoroughly  guilty  and  miserable. 

"Yes,"  she  says,  humbly,  "I  am  listening." 

Philip  hesitates ;  he  does  not  in  the  least  know  how  to 
express  what  he  wants  to  say.  She  is  looking  at  him. 
This  time  it  is  she  who  is  calm,  he  nervous  and  excited. 
He  speaks  fast,  to  conceal  his  agitation. 

"I  am  going  away  to-night;  I  shall  not  trouble  you 
any  more.  I  shall  arrange  with  Marcelline  for  you  to 
stay  here,  or  return  to  Rouen, — which  you  please.  But — 
oh,  child,  I  must  warn  you,"  he  says,  suddenly  and  pas- 
sionately, "  beware  how  you  give  way  to  loving  this  man 
until  you  know  whether  he  has  anything  to  give  you  in 
return.  You  do  not  know  the  horrible  pain  of  loving 
when  you  are  not  loved." 

"  Do  I  not  ?"  she  says,  simply,  looking  fixedly  at  him , 
and,  with  a  sudden  rush  of  memory,  comes  upon  him  that 
day  when  he  first  saw  her  little  form  quivering  with  sobs 
in  the  church  of  St.  Ouen — the  night  when  he  found  her 
bending,  with  outstretched  arms,  over  the  dull,  black 
waters  of  the  Seine. 

"Philip,"  she  continues,  with  something  of  dignity, 
childish  as  she  is,  "I  beg  you  do  not  think  so  meanly  of 
me  as  to  believe  I  would  suffer  myself  to  go  on  breaking 


WHAT  FATE  DECREES. 


217 


my  heart  about  some  one  who  has  no  thought  for  me.  1 
do  not  deceive  myself.  Sir  Guy" — she  pronounces  the 
name  without  faltering — "  only  liked  me  as  a  little  girl 
who  made  a  few  hours  pass  for  him.  He  never  loved 
me  the  least;  he  never  will — oh,  I  feel  he  never  will!" 
with  tremulous  emphasis.  "  It  is  not  that  I  care  for  him 
— oh,  Philip,  believe  me" — and  she  speaks  earnestly,  as 
if  she  not  only  wishes  to  convince  him,  but  herself,  of  the 
truth  of  what  she  is  saying, — "  only — only — I  feel  I  never, 
never  could  marry  any  one.  If,"  she  goes  on,  implor- 
ingly— "if  you  would  only  still  be  my  friend,  and  love 
me  like  a  little  sister,  and  let  me  live  with  you  and 
Mary " 

"  Impossible !"  he  utters,  almost  harshly.  "  No,  child  j 
I  leave  you  to-night,  and  I  hope  never  to  see  you  any 
more." 

She  shrinks  away  from  him,  frightened  at  the  tone  of 
his  voice. 

"Forgive  me,  dear,"  he  says,  penitently,  recovering 
himself.  "Of  course  I  will  always  be  your  friend — 
always  do  everything  in  my  power  to  further  your  happi- 
ness. Whenever  you  have  need  of  me  you  will  only  have 
to  write  to  me,  and  I  will  be  to  you  in  place  of  a  brother 
— or  a  father,"  he  adds,  with  some  bitterness.  "You 
know,  child,  it  is  not  possible  to  live  in  sight  of  what 
one  most  desires  and  covets,  when  one  knows  one  can 
never  reach  out  one's  hand  to  grasp  it." 

"I  don't  know,"  says  the  girl,  dreamily.  "I  used  to 
think,  if  I  could  only  be  always  with  him " 

Then  she  stops,  her  face  suffused  with  blushes,  remem- 
bering to  whom  she  is  making  this  confidence;  but  he 
answers,  quietly, — 

"You  are  an  innocent  little  child;  you  do  not  even 
comprehend  in  the  very  least  what  a  man  feels." 
K  19 


2l8  DOLORES. 

"  Does  he  feel  that  to  be  away  from  what  he  loves  is 
utter  misery?"  she  asks,  with  kindling  eyes.  "Does  he 
feel  that  everything  pleasant  is  gone  out  of  life?  Does 
he  feel  that  he  would  like  to  be  dead,  only  that  he  might 
forget?" 

"Ay,  child,"  he  groans  in  answer,  "and  more  than 
that — much  more." 

"There  is  nothing  more,"  she  says,  shaking  her  head. 

The  sitting-room  door  is  thrown  wide  open  by  a  waiter, 
and  Sir  Guy  Wentworth's  tall  figure  is  visible  in  the  door- 
way. Dolores  is  seized  with  sudden  confusion.  She 
remembers  her  tear-stained  face,  her  disordered  hair  and 
neglected  toilette,  and,  starting  up,  she  rushes  across  the 
room,  and  makes  her  escape  through  another  door.  Philip 
rises  stiffly.  Guy  looks  very  much  embarrassed,  but  says, 
trying  to  speak  naturally, — 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  that  Miss  Power  has  recovered 
from  her — her  indisposition  this  morning.  I  came  to 
inquire  after  her,  but  perhaps  she  does  not  feel  equal  or 
inclined  to  see  visitors.  I  believe"  (very  courteously) 
"  I  am  to  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  to-night. 
I  think  I  will  withdraw  now."  And  he  turns  to  leave 
the  room. 

Philip's  heart  beats  very  fast,  but  his  mind  is  made  up. 

"  If  your  time  is  at  your  disposal,"  he  says,  with  cold 
politeness,  "I  shall  be  glad  to  have  a  few  moments'  con- 
versation now.  I  am  anxious,  if  possible,  to  leave  Paris 
to-night." 

"By  all  means,"  answers  Guy,  putting  down  his  hat, 
and  endeavoring  to  speak  unconcernedly,  although  he 
feels  the  interview  is  not  going  to  be  a  very  agreeable 
one.  "  I  was  to  have  taken  my  sister-in-law  out,  but  she 
has  a  headache.  Very  trying  weather  ! ' ' 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Philip,  writing  something 


LOVERS  AND  LOVERS. 


219 


on  a  piece  of  paper.  He  rings  the  bell,  and  gives  it  to 
the  waiter.  It  is  a  line  to  Dolores,  asking  her  not  to 
return  to  the  room  until  he  sends  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

LOVERS  AND   LOVERS. 

THE  two  men  are  alone  together,  yet  for  a  few  moments 
neither  speaks — Guy,  because  he  is  utterly  at  a  loss  what 
to  say  next ;  Philip,  because  a  horribly  difficult  task  lies 
before  him.  How  can  he  make  his  darling  small  in  this 
man's  eyes  by  betraying  her  love  of  him  ?  And  yet  for 
what  other  purpose  has  this  miserable,  hateful  meeting 
been  convened  than  to  talk  of  her  and  of  her  future  ?  He 
begins  his  bitter  task  at  last,  speaking  unconsciously  in  a 
hard,  cold,  constrained  voice. 

"  I  should  wish  to  explain  to  you  the  seemingly  equiv- 
ocal position  in  which  you  find  Miss  Power  and  myself. 
My  sister,  with  whom  she  has  principally  stayed  since  her 
mother's  death,  was  suddenly  called  to  England  by  illness; 
it  had  been  arranged  that  we  were  all  to  spend  a  week 
together  in  Paris,  and,  not  liking  to  disappoint  Miss 
Power,  I  brought  her  here  with  Marcelline.  We  were  to 
have  been  married  shortly." 

His  voice  has  grown  harsher,  until  it  is  painfully  abrupu 

Guy's  strong  brown  fingers  clinch  themselves  uneasily 
round  his  stick ;  there  is  an  uncomfortable  sensation  in 
his  throat  as  he  says,  interrogatively,  "Were  to  have 

been?  I  hope "  He  stammers,  and  his  voice  fails 

him. 


220  DOLORES. 

"It  was  hardly  a  very  suitable  marriage,"  Philip  con- 
tinues, speaking  like  some  unsympathetic,  dispassionate 
third  person.  "  She  was  so  many  years  younger  than  I, 
and  I  had  so  little  to  offer  her;  still " 

"Pardon  me,"  says  Guy,  breaking  in:  "if  you  are 
under  the  impression  that  I  have  the  desire  or  right  to 
know  any  matters  connected  with  Miss  Power,  I  should 
wish  to  explain  to  you  at  once  that,  though  I  feel  the 
greatest  friendship  and  interest  in  her,  I " 

"  I  know  exactly  the  relations  between  you  and  Miss 
Power,"  utters  Captain  Etherege,  in  a  freezing  tone; 
"and  although"  (proudly)  "explanations  from  me  to 
you  are  unnecessary,  there  are  reasons  which  make  me 
desire  to  enter  upon  them." 

Sir  Guy  merely  inclines  his  head,  and  relapses  into 
silence. 

"  I  saw  her  for  the  first  time,  a  few  months  ago,  in 
Rouen,"  Philip  proceeds;  "she  was  sitting  behind  a 
pillar  in  St.  Ouen,  crying  so  bitterly  that  it  made  me 
wretched  to  see  her ;  a  few  nights  after,  I  followed  her  as 
she  was  hurrying  down  to  the  river.  I  stopped  her  from 
drowning  herself." 

For  the  first  time  Philip  looks  at  his  auditor,  whose  face 
is  colorless  to  the  lips. 

"  From  that  time  we  saw  a  great  deal  of  her,  my  sister 
and  I.  Her  mother  died.  I,  loving  her,  and  seeing  that 
she  had  no  friends  or  relations,  asked  her  to  marry  me. 
Then  she  told  me — about  you." 

Guy  starts  up,  the  crimson  flushing  through  his  bronzed 
face ;  takes  two  or  three  sharp  turns  ;  then  pulling  himself 
up  abruptly  in  front  of  Philip,  and  looking  him  straight 
in  the  face,  says, — 

"You  must  think  me  an  awful  blackguard." 

Philip  returns  the  look,  but  is  silent.     In  his  heart  ht 


LOVERS  AND  LOVERS.  221 

does  not  condemn  the  man  before  him,  fain  though  he 
would.  Something  frank  and  true  speaks  from  the  heart 
through  the  eyes  and  says,  This  is  a  man  of  honor  ! 

"  Before  God,"  Guy  says,  with  passionate  earnestness, 
"I  had  no  idea  that  the  poor  little  thing"  (Philip 
winces)  "cared  for  me  so  much.  I  may  have,  nay,  I 
must  have  been  to  blame  ;  but  when  I  saw  her  pretty  face 
and  wanted  to  sketch  it,  when  I  talked  to  her  up  in  the 
little  garden  at  Rouen,  I  had  no  thought  of  any  danger 
to  her.  You  know,"  adds  the  young  man,  apologetically, 
"  one  can't  be  such  a  conceited  ass  as  to  go  about  afraid 
to  speak  to  a  pretty  girl,  for  fear  she  should  fall  in  love 
with  one.  When  she  came  to  me  in  Paris  I  was  awfully 
cut  up." 

The  blood  rushes  tingling  into  Philip's  white  face. 
Guy,  seeing  it,  pauses  awkwardly,  then  resumes  more 
earnestly, — 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  that  if  Dolores  had  been  my 
sister " 

"To  doubt  you  would  be  to  doubt  her  !"  rejoins  Cap- 
tain Etherege,  icily. 

"If  it  had  got  wind  in  the  place — if  any  trouble  had 
come  to  her  through  it,  I  would  have  married  her.  I 

should  have  done  so  as  it  was,  only "  It  is  Guy's 

turn  to  wince  and  grow  red  now. 

"  You  cared  for  some  one  else  ?" 

"I  did." 

"And  you  still " 

"  I  cannot  marry  the  woman  I  love.  I  shall  never  love 
any  other,"  Guy  answers,  a  little  stiffly. 

Philip  could  almost  laugh  to  himself — laugh,  not  for 
mirth,  but  to  think  of  the  bitter  cross-purposes  of  Fate — 
of  himself  who  loves  the  child  so  tenderly,  of  her  who 
loves  this  man,  of  him  who  loves  another  woman,  and  all 

19* 


,22  DOLORES. 

equally  in  vain.  To  think  of  anything  so  tender,  so 
sweet,  so  exquisite  as  Dolores  loving  in  vain  ! 

"But  surely,"  Guy  resumes,  "since  all  this  is  past, 
why  should  we  rake  it  up  again  ?  I  am  but  too  willing  to 
answer  any  question  you  choose  to  put  to  me,  but  if  you 
love  Dolores,  and  she  has  consented  to  be  your  wife, 
surely  -  " 

Captain  Etherege  rises  and  walks  to  the  window  ;  the 
words  he  has  to  say  are  bitter  to  him. 

"  When  I  left  this  house  with  her  this  morning,  it  was 
in  the  firm  belief  that  she  was  willing  to  be  my  wife. 
You  observed  the  effect  the  sight  of  you  produced  upon 
her;  since  then  she  has  told  me  she  cannot  marry  me." 

"A  child's  fancy,"  mutters  Guy.   "In  a  little  time  -  " 

"In  a  little  time!"  retorts  Philip,  turning  upon  him. 
"  How  long  is  it  since  she  came  to  you  here  in  Paris?" 

"But  what  can  I  do?"  returns  the  young  man,  with 
some  hauteur.  "It  is  most  unfortunate,  but  I  hardly 


"I  was  too  hasty,"  says  Philip,  collecting  himself.  He 
remembers  that  on  his  discretion,  on  his  forgetfulness  of 
himself  at  this  moment,  hangs,  perhaps,  the  future  of  the 
girl  whom  he  loves  so  dearly. 

"You  must  see,"  he  says,  speaking  more  coldly  the 
more  acutely  he  feels,  "  that  my  position  is  rather  a  pain- 
ful one.  It  is  not  in  my  power  to  make  or  mar  her  life 
now;  but  you  -  " 

"I  !"  says  Guy,  hesitating. 

"Do  not  think  for  one  instant,"  pursues  Philip, 
warmly,  "  that  I  am  interceding  with  you  in  Miss  Power's 
behalf;  if  you  do  not  care  for  her,  it  would  be  better  a 
thousand  times  she  never  saw  you  again.  I  am  only  think- 
ing you  may  have  friends  who,  for  your  sake,  would  be 
kind  to  her  —  who  would  introduce  her  into  some  society  ; 


LOVERS  AND  LOVERS.  223 

for  at  this  moment  she  is  without  friends,  position,  without 
any  one  in  the  world  except  her  faithful  old  nurse." 

" Has  she  no  relations?"  Guy  asks. 

"  Her  mother  died  leaving  no  clue  whatever  to  the  past, 
and  the  lawyers  who  managed  her  affairs  could  tell  us 
nothing." 

A  sudden  thought  flashes  across  Guy ;  under  the  influ- 
ence of  it  his  breath  comes  quickly,  the  red  color  deepens 
in  his  face.  What  has  he  to  look  forward  to  in  life?  He 
loves  one  woman  as  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  he  knows 
he  can  never  love  any  other !  This  poor  innocent  little 
girl  loves  him;  after  all,  it  is  sweet  to  be  loved,  even 
when  one  has  no  love  to  give  in  exchange — sweetest  of  all, 
perhaps,  to  feel  one  can  inspire  it  when  one's  heart  aches 
for  the  love  one  cannot  have.  He,  so  unhappy  in  his 
passion,  can  bestow  great  happiness  on  this  little  suffering 
child.  She  is  pure;  and  how  faithful  she  has  been  to  him 
all  these  many  months,  whilst  he  selfishly  had  forgotten 
her !  But  he  cannot  suddenly  make  this  plunge — he  must 
have  time  given  him  to  think.  So  he  rises  somewhat 
abruptly,  saying, — 

"I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for  Miss  Power. 
If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  think  it  over,  and  see  you 
again  this  evening." 

The  two  men  bow  coldly  to  each  other,  and  Guy,  taking 
his  hat,  goes  out.  Goes  out  half  giddy,  confused,  the 
strange  new  thought  surging  in  his  brain,  and  walks  on 
towards  his  hotel,  passing  the  same  shops,  the  same  streets, 
which  he  had  passed  that  night  she  came  to  him  in  Paris, 
and  he  had  paced  up  and  down  racking  his  brain  to  know 
what  to  do  with  her.  Well,  he  knows  now — what  should 
he  do  but  marry  her?  She  is  very  young,  very  fair,  and 
she  loves  him — ay,  no  doubt  of  that  need  perplex  his 
thoughts.  He  goes  straight  to  his  room,  gives  strict 


224  DOLORES. 

orders  to  his  servant  that  he  shall  not  be  disturbed,  and 
locks  himself  in. 

"  Stay !"  he  cries,  unbolting  the  door  and  calling  back 
his  man :  "  if  Mrs.  Charteris  wants  me,  let  me  know." 

For  nothing  can  make  him  forget  her.  Alone,  he 
throws  himself  into  a  chair  and  thinks.  It  is  not  un- 
pleasant to  him,  this  new  thought  of  a  young,  beautiful, 
loving  wife.  He  has  not  much  joy  of  his  life  now :  it  was 
pleasant  enough  before  Fate  made  him  love  so  madly  and 
miserably  this  woman  who  never  can  be  his,  but  now 
what  has  he  to  look  forward  to  ?  He  cannot  be  much 
longer  in  Milly's  society — the  pain  is  too  great,  and, 
besides,  he  is  nothing  to  her,  only  her  husband's  brother. 
As  he  drifts  into  the  memory  of  her,  he  rouses  himself 
with  an  impatient  gesture,  and  goes  back  to  his  thoughts 
of  Dolores.  Yes,  he  will  make  a  pet,  a  toy,  a  plaything 
of  her.  She  is  beautiful;  well,  he  will  make  her  more 
beautiful,  with  every  adornment  that  wealth  can  buy. 
She  loves  him  dearly ;  he  will  be  so  good  to  her,  she  shall 
love  him  tenfold  more — in  time  he  will  grow  to  love  her 
as  much,  and  she  will  make  him  forget  that  he  ever  loved 
unhappily. 

So  men  argue  and  resolve. 

He  thinks  over  what  Philip  has  told  him  of  his  first 
meeting  with  the  little  thing  drowned  in  tears,  then  of 
her  attempt  to  throw  herself  into  the  Seine.  A  thrill 
runs  through  his  veins,  half  of  horror,  half  of  joy  to 
know  that  he  is  so  passionately  loved ;  and  then  for  the 
first  time  he  thinks  of  Philip.  He  has  only  seen  the  cold 
exterior  of  a  man  of  middle  age,  whose  feelings  are  too 
well  under  command  for  any  outward  observer  to  guess 
the  bitter  pain  of  his  heart ;  and  so  he  thinks  little  of  his 
sacrifice.  Going  to  marry  her  out  of  kindness — does  not 
seem  very  sorry  to  be  out  of  it — doesn't  think,  from  his 


LOVERS  AND  LOVERS.  225 

look,  she  would  have  had  much  of  a  time  of  it — that  is 
Guy's  mental  verdict.  That  is  the  way  in  which  we  pro- 
nounce upon  each  other. 

He  sits  thinking  and  thinking,  until  he  has  argued 
himself  into  the  conviction  that  he  is  bound  by  every 
feeling  of  honor  to  marry  Dolores.  He  would  like  to 
know  something  more  of  her  antecedents ;  but  she  is  a 
perfect  little  lady,  and  has  he  not  position  enough  for 
them  both  ?  Yes,  it  is  all  settled ;  he  will  marry  her  at 
once,  as  soon  as  everything  can  be  arranged,  at  the 
Chapel  of  the  Embassy ;  and  Milly  will  take  care  of  her 
till  then.  He  has  half  a  mind  to  send  and  beg  an  inter- 
view with  his  sister-in-law.  But  no,  she  is  not  well,  and 
he  would  not  disturb  her;  and  then,  perhaps  the  sight 
of  her,  the  sound  of  her  voice,  might  make  him  feel 
differently — might  make  him  swerve  from  his  hour-old 
resolution. 

He  unbolts  his  door,  and  Stevens  appears. 

"  The  captain's  been  here  for  you,  Sir  Guy,  and 
wanted  very  much  to  see  you ;  but  I  told  him  your 
orders.  He  wanted  to  know  where  you  were  going  to 
dine,  Sir  Guy." 

Guy  had  actually  forgotten  about  dinner.  After  a 
moment's  pause  he  says, — 

"  I  have  an  engagement.  Go  and  tell  Captain  Char- 
teris  I  shall  not  be  able  to  dine  with  him  to-night.  Stay ; 
give  me  my  coat,  and  wait  until  I  have  gone." 

Stevens  is  a  very  shrewd  person.  Knowing  most  of  his 
master's  business,  and  a  good  deal  more,  he  has  the  well- 
bred  stolidity  that  distinguishes  a  servant  who  knows  his 
duty.  He  is  attached  to  his  master;  but  over  and  beyond 
that  he  has  a  professional  interest  in  finding  out  anything 
that  relates  to  his  master's  affairs. 

"Rattling  good  servant !"  Guy  once  described  him — 
P 


226  DOLORES. 

"  never  forgets  anything — no  curiosity — never  bothers  his 
head  about  things  that  don't  concern  him." 

Yet  Stevens  was  the  only  person  who  knew  that  Guy 
was  in  love  with  his  sister-in-law. 

Sir  Guy  goes  out,  and  betakes  himself  to  a  small  cafd  in 
a  side-street,  where  he  feels  quite  sure  of  not  meeting  any 
acquaintance.  He  is  preoccupied,  but  that  does  not  pre- 
vent his  selecting  various  dishes  from  the  carte,  and  par- 
taking of  them  with  a  certain  amount  of  relish,  since  they 
happen  to  be  remarkably  well  cooked  and  served.  An 
hour  later  he  is  again  in  the  hotel  where  Dolores  is 
staying,  asking  for  Captain  Etherege.  He  is  ushered 
up-stairs,  and  finds  Dolores  sitting  alone.  She  starts  up 
on  his  entrance,  coloring  deeply,  and,  rising,  stammers, — 

"I  did  not  expect  you." 

" Did  you  not?"  he  says,  coming  forward  with  a  smile 
and  outstretched  hand.  "At  all  events,  I  hope  the  sur- 
prise is  not  an  unpleasant  one." 

He  is  not  constrained  or  embarrassed ;  why  should  he 
be  ?  He  is  no  doubting  lover  hanging  for  his  fate  upon 
his  mistress's  word.  He  is  here  to  ask  a  very  pretty  girl, 
who,  he  knows  without  a  doubt,  adores  him,  to  be  his 
wife.  The  task  is  not  wholly  an  unpleasant  one,  for  she  is 
passing  fair  this  child  who  stands  downcast  and  trembling 
before  him. 

"I  came  to  see  Captain  Etherege,"  proceeds  Guy; 
"but  since  he  is  not  here " 

"He  will  be  back  at  nine — he  sent  me  word  so  by 
Marcelline.  It  is  barely  eight  yet,"  glancing  at  the  gilt 
timepiece. 

"So  much  the  better,"  replies  Guy,  quite  unembar- 
rassed, laying  down  his  hat.  "  May  I  take  off  my  coat  ?" 
divesting  himself  of  it  before  she  has  time  to  reply. 

Dolores  has  not  resumed  her  seat,  but  is  standing  by 


LOVERS  AND   LOVERS. 


327 


the  fireplace,  trying  hard  to  compose  herself — to  still  the 
tremulousness  that  shakes  all  her  delicate  frame.  Guy 
comes  towards  her,  the  smile  deepening  on  his  face,  a 
pleasant  sense  of  possession  stealing  over  him  at  her  mere 
physical  loveliness,  and  in  a  moment  naturally,  without 
hesitation,  stretches  out  his  arm  to  draw  her  towards  him. 

"Don't!"  she  cries,  violently,  starting  back,  a  name- 
less sick  terror  taking  possession  of  her. 

"Dolores,"  he  utters,  half  reproachfully,  "  I  have  come 
to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife. ' ' 

The  color  glows  fiercely  again  in  the  cheeks  that  had 
grown  pale.  She  looks  at  him  fixedly  for  a  moment,  then, 
drawing  still  further  from  him,  answers,  in  a  firm  voice, — 

"Never!" 

Guy  is  taken  a  little  by  surprise.  He  is  certainly  not 
a  vain  man,  but  under  the  circumstances,  the  sacrifice  be- 
ing on  his  side,  he  had  expected  her  to  fall  at  once,  hap- 
pily, if  not  gratefully,  into  his  arms ;  instead  of  which 
she  stands  glaring  at  him  like  a  young  pythoness,  and 
reiterating,  "  Never !" 

The  assumption  of  this  position  in  the  girl  supposed 
to  be  breaking  her  heart  for  love  of  him  somewhat  alters 
the  aspect  of  affairs.  Guy  naturally  grows  warmer  in  the 
face  of  opposition. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  says,  not  attempting  to  touch 
her  now,  "  pray  forgive  me.  I  was  too  abrupt.  I  fancied 
that  you  liked  me  a  little,  and " 

"And  you  came  to  ask  me  just  out  of  pity !"  cries  the 
girl,  excitedly. 

"  Indeed  no,"  he  answers,  a  little  shocked  at  this  coarse 
way  of  putting  it. 

"Indeed  yes!"  she  retorts,  passionately.  "He  has 
told  you,  I  know,  and  it  was  mean  and  cruel  of  him." 

Guy,   being    about   as  clever  at  subterfuge  as  most 


228  DOLORES. 

straightforward  Englishmen,  is  rather  at  a  disadvantage. 
A  lie  sticks  in  his  throat,  and  nothing  short  of  it  is 
required  to  calm  the  girl's  excitement. 

"My  dear  child "  he  protests;  but  she  interrupts 

him. 

"  Do  you  think  I  do  not  know?  Cannot  I  read  it  in 
your  face  ?  If  he  had  not  told  you,  would  you  have  come 
into  the  room  smiling  and  looking  quite  sure  of  what  I 
should  answer  when  you  did  me  the  honor  to  ask  me?" 

Never  before  has  Dolores  been  so  passionately  excited. 
She  feels  degraded  in  her  own  eyes,  and  it  makes  her 
bitter  against  the  man  who  she  feels  has  degraded  her, 
dearly  though  she  loves  him. 

"What  a  clumsy  brute  I  am  !"  Guy  thinks  to  himself. 
"  Of  course  I  ought  not  to  have  blundered  at  it  in  that 
way;  no  wonder  she  resents  it,  poor  little  thing;"  but 
her  behavior  has  the  effect  of  making  him  more  solicitous 
about  the  prize  he  had  besought  in  so  cavalier  a  fashion. 

"Have  I  offended  you?"  he  asks,  rather  humbly,  not 
being  skilled  in  the  treatment  of  wayward  young  women. 

"Offended  me!"  with  a  touch  of  scorn.  "Oh,  Sir 
Guy,  you  do  me  too  much  honor,  only"  (her  voice 
breaking  suddenly — "  only,  unfortunately,  I  know  that 
you  had  an  interview  with  Captain  Etherege  to-day,  when 
he  told  you  that — that  I  loved  you"  (her  face  dyed  with 
hot  shame),  "and  so,  out  of  pity — out  of  pity,  you  ask 
me  to  be  your  wife." 

"  But  I  assure  you "  pleads  Guy. 

"Else"  (interrupting  him  passionately)— " else  why 
have  you  been  all  these  months  without  coming  to  see-  if 
I  was  alive  or  dead,  without  writing  me  one  line,  without 
thinking  of  me  once ;  and  now  to-day,  to-day  you  come 
suddenly  with  a  face  that  says,  *  I  have  but  to  hold  out 
my  arms,  and  she  will  rush  into  them.'  " 


GOOD- BY. 


229 


She  stands  before  him  with  her  lovely  eyes  dilated,  her 
mouth  quivering,  every  line  and  curve  of  her  delicate 
figure  shaking  with  intense  emotion;  her  utterance  is 
rapid,  and  tinged  by  the  faintest  foreign  accent. 

Guy  had  come  coolly  to  the  wooing,  in  a  composed 
after-dinner  frame  of  mind — he  was  utterly  unprepared 
for  any  scene  of  this  kind — he  had  come  with  the  inten- 
tion of  saying  in  so  many  words, — 

"  My  dear  child,  I  am  a  disappointed  man,  tired  of 
the  world,  tired  of  myself,  tired  of  everything.  I  have 
no  romantic  love  to  give  you ;  no  doubt  in  time  I  shall 
be  very  fond  of  you ;  you  are  a  very  dear  little  thing, 
and  I  hope  you  will  be  content  to  take  me  as  I  am." 

His  ideas  on  this  subject  undergo  some  modification. 
Such  a  style  of  wooing  hardly  seems  suited  to  the  present 
emergency,  and,  manlike,  or  perhaps  rather  human-like, 
he  begins  to  set  a  little  more  store  by  the  thing  tha*  is 
not  so  easy  to  win  as  he  imagined. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

GOOD-BY  ! 

"INDEED  I  do  love  you,  Dolores,  awfully!"  says  the 
young  man,  making  emphatic  use  of  the  word  to  which 
the  present  generation  have  by  common  consent  given  a 
new  and  utterly  inappropriate  signification. 

As  he  speaks,  he  feels  quite  certain  that  what  he  says 
is  true.  She,  standing  before  him  there,  looks  so  sweet 
and  fair,  so  altogether  desirable,  it  is  no  longer  a  hard 
task  to  frame  words  loving  enough  to  woo  her. 


230 


DOLORES. 


She  is  not  shrewd,  nor  clever,  nor  penetrating,  but 
she  can  hear  the  altered  ring  of  the  voice,  and,  so  hear- 
ing, looks  up. 

"Not  awfully !"  she  says,  with  pretty  emphasis — "a 
very  little  perhaps." 

"Let  me  talk  to  you,  darling,"  he  whispers,  drawing 
her  gently  to  his  side  on  the  sofa — very  gently,  that  she 
may  not  recoil  from  him  again.  "Why  won't  you  be- 
lieve me  when  I  say  I  love  you  ?' ' 

"Because,"  she  answers,  simply,  "you  were  with  me 
much  in  the  last  spring.  You  could  not  love  me  then  ;  if 
you  had  cared  even  a  very  little  for  me,  you  would  have 
come  just  once  to  see  me — ah,  mon  Dieu!  just  once  in 
all  those  months  that  I  sat  praying  for  you  under  the  old 
apple-trees.  Or,  if  that  were  too  much  to  ask,  you  might 
have  sent  me  a  few  lines  to  say  you  had  not  forgotten  me 
altogether.  Every  day  I  stood  at  the  gate,  and  how  my 
heart  beat  as  I  watched  the  postman  come  up  the  hill,  till 
when  he  came  to  the  gate  I  turned  sick  with  hope  and 
fear;  but  he  always  passed"  (sighing).  "At  least  you 
might  have  replied  to  the  letter  I  wrote  to  you." 

"  Letter,  my  dear  child !"  cries  Guy,  remorseful  at  hear- 
ing how  she  has  suffered  for  his  sake ;  "I  never  received 
one.  But  that  is  easily  accounted  for.  I  told  them  at 
home  not  to  forward  my  letters,  little  dreaming  there  was 
one  I  should  have  been  so  glad  to  get." 

"Well,"  pursues  Dolores,  following  her  own  thoughts, 
and  not  his  words,  "and  all  this  time  you  never  cared  or 
wished  to  see  or  know  of  me,  and  yet  now  to-day  you 
would  persuade  me  that  you  have  all  at  once  come  to  love 
me !  How  can  I  believe  you  ?  It  is  out  of  the  goodness 
of  your  heart — indeed,  I  thank  you,  but,  pitiful  as  I  must 
seem  in  your  eyes,  I  could  not  accept  such  a  sacrifice." 

"But  suppose,"  says  Guy,  his  color  deepening  a  little 


GOOD-BY.  231 

as  his  conscience  accuses  him  of  perverting  the  truth, 
"  suppose  that  last  year  there  was  an  obstacle  to  my  ask- 
ing you  to  be  my  wife — an  obstacle  that  is  removed  now?" 

She  looks  keenly  in  his  face. 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  believe,"  she  cries,  half  joyful, 
half  doubting,  "that  you  had  loved  me  a  little  then  !" 

"  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  obstacle  I  speak  of,  I  should 
have  asked  you  then  to  marry  me." 

"Really  and  in  truth?"  she  asks,  wistfully. 

"Really  and  in  truth,"  he  affirms. 

"But  what  was  the  obstacle?"  she  asks,  woman-like. 

The  truth  rises  to  his  lips — "  I  loved  another  woman ;" 
but  he  represses  it.  Why  give  her  needless  pain  ?  and, 
besides,  that  question  answered,  a  dozen  others  would 
follow,  and  he  never  means  her  to  know  who  has  been  her 
rival :  so  he  only  strokes  her  hair  and  answers, — 

"  Little  curiosity !  what  does  it  matter,  since  the  ob 
stacle  is  removed?" 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  quite  removed?"  she  goes  on,  per- 
sistently. 

He  pauses  a  moment,  and  then  says, — 

"Quite  sure." 

But  a  sigh  escapes  him,  and  she  takes  note  of  it. 

"I  know,"  she  says,  reddening,  and  with  a  sigh  too. 
"You  loved  some  one  else." 

"I  am  not  going  to  be  cross-questioned,"  he  answers, 
trying  to  speak  lightly. 

"And  perhaps,"  continues  Dolores,  with  eyes  intent 
upon  his  face, — "  perhaps  you  love  her  still?" 

"  Hush  !"  he  says,  putting  his  hand  to  her  lips.  "  Do 
I  not  love  you  ? — and  how  can  I  love  two  people  at  the 
same  time  ?  Come,  darling,  tell  me  that  you  will  be  my 
own  beautiful  little  wife,  and  I  swear  to  you  you  shall 
never  have  cause  to  think  I  love  any  one  better  than  you." 


,32  DOLORES. 

"  Swear  to  me  first,"  she  says,  solemnly,  "  that  you  love 
me  better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. ' ' 

For  a  moment  he  hesitates,  and  then  asks,  evasively, — 

"What  makes  you  so  suspicious?  How  can  I  prove  to 
you  that  I  love  you  dearly?" 

"  By  swearing  what  I  ask,  if  you  can,"  she  returns,  sadly. 

"But  I  have  a  mother,"  he  says,  trying  to  turn  it  off 
laughingly ;  "I  love  her  very  much." 

"  Ah !  that  is  quite  different.  You  know  one  could 
never  be  jealous  of  a  man's  love  for  his  mother." 

"Are  you  jealous,  Dolores?"  he  asks  her. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  replies,  reflectively.  "I  think 
I  should  be — oh,  yes,"  she  adds  warmly,  "  I  am  quite  sure 
I  should  be." 

"Well,  you  shall  not  be  put  to  the  test.  I  will  never 
look  at  another  woman,"  he  says,  laughing,  "  if  you  for- 
bid it,  except  those  of  my  own  family." 

"  Was  that  lady  you  were  with  to-day  one  of  your  own 
family?"  Dolores  asks,  after  a  slight  pause. 

"Yes — my  brother's  wife"  (trying  to  spaak  unconcern- 
edly). 

"Do  you  like  her?" 

"Yes."          % 

" Did  you  know  her  before  she  married  him?" 

Guy  takes  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"I  shall  not  answer  you  any  more  questions  until  you 
have  answered  mine.  Will  you  marry  me,  Dolores?" 

She  twists  herself  free  from  him,  goes  to  the  window, 
looks  out,  and  then  comes  back. 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  be  quite,  quite  sure  that  you 
really  love  me  !"  she  utters,  wistfully. 

"Be  quite  sure,  then,  darling."  And  the  young  man 
puts  his  arm  round  her  and  draws  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder. 


G  COD-BY. 


233 


She  leaves  it  there  this  time,  but  he  feels  her  whole 
frame  quivering  with  sobs.  Her  heart  is  bitter  within 
her.  Although  her  hopes  have  come  to  fruition,  the 
taste  of  them  is  not  such  as  she  had  fancied.  In  the  days 
gone  by,  when  she  had  sat  under  the  apple-trees,  weaving 
memory  and  imagination  into  fair  pictures,  she  had 
thought  of  some  such  scene  as  this,  where  he  would  say, 
"I  love  you,  Dolores;"  and  it  had  seemed  to  her  as 
though  the  happiness  would  be  so  supreme,  so  ecstatic, 
she  could  ask  no  more  of  life  afterwards.  But  now  that 
her  head  lay  on  his  breast,  that  he  whispered  a  thousand 
endearing  words  in  her  ear,  it  was  all  blank  disappoint- 
ment ;  for  she  knew  in  her  inmost  heart  that  he  did  not 
love  as  she  loved  him — as  Philip  loved  her.  Poor  Philip  ! 
she  could  feel  for  him  now. 

Sir  Guy  was  sorely  troubled  what  to  do  with  her.  He 
was  so  grieved  at  her  distress,  it  inspired  him  with  so 
much  pity,  that  she  grew  every  moment  dearer  to  him. 
And  there  was  no  insincerity  in  his  words  as  he  essayed 
to  soothe  and  bring  her  to  a  happier  frame  of  mind.  He 
sat  beside  her,  holding  her  hands  in  his  kind,  strong 
clasp,  talking  to  her  about  the  future — about  his  home, 
and  all  the  bright  things  of  the  new  life  that  should  open 
for  her ;  and,  as  he  grew  warm  in  his  pleading,  the  picture 
seemed  fair  enough  to  him  too. 

The  child's  tears  ceased  to  flow ;  her  eyes  grew  brighter, 
a  smile  parted  her  lips,  the  bitterness  began  to  die  away, 
and  happy  thoughts  to  come  in  the  place  of  sorrowful 
ones.  He  must  love  her,  or  he  could  not  talk  so  gladly, 
so  eagerly,  of  a  future  to  be  spent  with  her. 

There  comes  a  sudden  knock  at  the  door,  and  they 
start  away  from  each  other  with  a  sort  of  guilty  instinct ; 
both  expect  to  see  Captain  Etherege  in  the  doorway. 
But  it  is  only  a  waiter,  who,  after  a  discreet  pause,  and 


»34 


DOLORES. 


another  knock,  that  elicits  a  spontaneous  "Entrez"  and 
"  Come  in,"  brings  in  a  note,  which  he  hands  to  Sir 
Guy,  and  retires.  It  is  from  Philip. 

"  I  dare  say  you  will  agree  with  me  that  there  can  be  no 
advantage  in  our  meeting  again,  as  was  arranged.  All 
there  is  to  say  can  be  more  easily  written.  If  you  cannot 
conveniently  let  me  know  now  what  you  suggest  for  Miss 
Power's  future,  a  note  will  find  me  here  up  to  ten  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning." 

Guy  may  be  pardoned  for  misjudging  the  writer ;  small 
wonder  if  he  thinks  the  man  whose  short,  harsh  note  he 
has  just  read  must  be  harsh  and  cold  too.  Hastily  he 
rings  for  paper  and  ink. 

"Is  it  from  Philip?"  asks  Dolores,  timidly.  "May  I 
not  see  it?" 

For  answer  he  puts  it  away  in  his  breast-pocket,  and 
kisses  the  outstretched  hand. 

"What  an  inquisitive  little  woman  it  is!"  he  laughs, 
as  he  betakes  himself  to  answer  it. 

"  DEAR  SIR, 

"  Miss  Power  has  consented  to  become  my  wife.  From 
to-morrow  my  sister-in-law  will,  I  know,  be  delighted  to 

undertake  the  care  of  her  until "  but  he  draws  his 

pen  through  the  last  word,  suppressing  the  sentence  he  had 
intended,  as  somewhat  lacking  in  delicacy  to  Captain 
Etherege. 

"Poor  Philip  !"  sighs  Do'ores. 

Guy  looks  up,  smiling,  and  not  one  whit  jealous. 

"I  suppose,"  he  says,  a  sudden  thought  striking  him, 
"  that  Captain  Etherege  and  his  sister  were  very  kind  to 
you,  darling?" 


GOOD-BY. 


235 


"Oh,  so  very,  very  kind  !"  she  responds  emphatically. 
Thereupon  he  makes  the  following  addendum  to  his 
note: 

"  I  am  aware  how  very  kind  you  and  Miss  Etherege 
have  been  to  Dolores,  and  trust  you  will  not  think  it  im- 
pertinent or  uncalled-for  on  my  part  if  I  thank  you  very 
earnestly  and  sincerely  for  your  goodness  to  her.  I  trust 
— we  both  trust — that  you  will  continue  your  friendship 
to  her.  I  need  not  say  you  will  always  be  welcome  and 
honored  guests  at  Wentworth." 

In  after-days  Guy  came  to  regard  this  production  as  a 
coarse,  clumsy,  almost  brutal  affair,  but  at  the  present 
moment  he  was  satisfied  with  it,  and  lost  no  time  in  dis- 
patching it.  Then  he  bade  farewell  to  Dolores,  promis- 
ing to  come  early  on  the  morrow,  and  to  bring  with  him 
Mrs.  Charteris,  who  would  take  her  back  to  their  hotel. 

Philip,  sitting  in  a  room  hard  by,  hears  the  firm  step 
pass  his  door,  and  crushes  in  his  hand  the  letter  he  holds. 
He  could  almost  laugh — from  no  mirth,  God  wot  1 — to 
think  of  the  position  they  stand  in  to  each  other.  The 
man  from  love  of  whom  he  had  rescued  Dolores  was  res- 
cuing her  from  him  now.  Only  twelve  hours  since,  and 
she  was  to  have  been  the  wife  of  the  one,  and  novr  the 
other  is  bidding  him  welcome  to  his  and  her  joint  friend- 
ship and  hospitality  in  the  future.  There  is  but  one  thing 
for  it — to  get  away  as  soon  as  possible.  He  will  bid  Do- 
lores a  kind,  calm  farewell — he  has  just  nerve  enough  for 
that — and  then  away  somewhere,  no  matter  where,  out  of 
sight,  out  of  mind  of  it  at  all. 

Thus  resolved,  he  enters  the  room  where  Dolores  sits 
buried  in  a  reverie,  half  happy,  half  mournful.  A  crim- 
son blush  ccvers  her  face.  She  rises  and  makes  a  step 
towards  him. 


j^6  DOLORES. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-by,  Dolores,"  he  says  quietly. 

His  manner  is  so  calm  and  cold  that  she  thinks  to  herself, 
"  After  all,  he  did  not  care  for  me  as  I  thought.  Perhaps 
he,  too,  only  felt  pity  for  me." 

So  she  replies,  somewhat  bitterly, — 

"  You  do  not  seem  very  sorry  to  say  it." 

He  checks  the  hasty  answer  that  rises  to  his  lips,  and 
o.ily  says, — 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy." 

"Why  should  you  go  away  and  leave  me  just  now?" 
she  asks,  with  a  burst  of  selfish  petulance. 

"It  is  better  so,  child,"  he  says,  quietly.  "You  will 
have  plenty  of  friends  now.  I  could  do  nothing  for  you 
if  I  stayed." 

"  You  are  unkind  !"  she  retorts,  with  rising  tears ;  really 
because  she  knows  not  what  to  say,  and  feels  a  vague,  irri- 
table consciousness  of  wrong  on  her  own  side. 

"Ami?"  he  answers,  very  patiently;  "then  forgive 
me,  and  wish  me  good-by." 

Angry  with  herself,  she  takes  refuge  in  being  irritable 
with  him. 

"Good-by,  then,  if  you  wish  it."  And  she  tears  the 
diamond  ring  from  her  finger,  and  the  locket  from  her 
neck,  and  thrusts  them  towards  him.  A  look  of  pain 
comes  into  his  face. 

"Don't  do  that,  child,"  he  says;  "if  you  will  no 
longer  wear  them,  at  least  keep  them,  to  remember  that 
you  were  once  loved  very  dearly.  I  don't  suppose  you 
will  ever  want  a  friend  now ;  but  if  a  time  should  come 
when  I  can  be  of  the  very  least  service  to  you,  I  think 
you  know  that  you  may  rely  on  me.  Write  to  my  club 
in  London — the  letter  will  be  sure  to  find  me." 

"And  Mary! — what  will  Mary  say?"  asks  the  girl, 
aneasily. 


GOOD- BY.  237 

"She  will  know  that  I  was  not  well  suited  to  you,"  he 
answers. 

"  And  you  think  so  too  !"  she  says,  pouting ;  "  you  are 
not  so  very  sorry  to  be  rid  of  me !" 

"  I  think  so  too,"  he  replies,  only  caring  to  answer  the 
first  part  of  her  sentence.  "Once  more  good-by,  child, 
and  God  bless  you  !" 

So  saying,  he  draws  her  towards  him,  kisses  her  white 
brow,  and,  turning,  leaves  her.  Returned  to  his  room, 
Captain  Etherege  again  sends  for  Marcelline,  gives  her 
certain  instructions  with  money,  and  an  address  where  he 
may  be  found,  packs  his  portmanteau,  and  within  two 
hours  had  left  Paris. 

"  Ce  pauvre  M.  Philippe !"  Marcelline  says,  plaintively, 
as  she  brushes  out  the  child's  long  hair  at  bedtime. 

"I  do  not  think  you  need  pity  him!"  is  the  pettish 
retort ;  "he  does  not  seem  to  mind  so  very  much." 

"Fa/"  replies  Marcelline,  sharply;  "you  are  a  little 
ungrateful  one.  Not  mind  !  when  I  read  that  in  his  eyes 
which  only  to  look  at  brought  the  tears  to  my  own.  The 
good  God  grant,  mademoiselle,  that  you  may  never  be 
sorry  for  this  day's  work!" 

"Why  should  I?"  she  asks,  impatiently;  "is  not  Sir 
Guy  handsome,  and  good,  and  rich,  and  noble,  and  does 
he  not  love  me?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  Marcelline  answers,  dryly,  pursing  up  her 
lips. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cries  Dolores,  turning  upon 
her  passionately,  the  more  so  because  her  own  heart 
misgives  her;  "do  you  dare  to  say  Sir  Guy  does  not 
love  me?" 

"No,  no,  no,"  replies  her  nurse,  soothingly. 

"You  dft/mean  that !"  cries  Dolores,  excitedly,  "and 
you  are  not  my  friend.  Go  away  from  me  !  do  not  touch 


238  DOLORES, 

me  !"   And  she  tears  her  hair  from  Marcelline's  astonished 
grasp,  who  has  never  seen  her  child  like  this  before. 

"  Tiens,  tiens!"  she  says,  cajolingly;  "what  has  thy 
Marcelline  said  ?  Of  course  Sir  Ghi  loves  thee,  or  why 
should  he  want  to  marry  thee  ?  I  only  meant  that  poor 
M.  le  Capitaine  loved  thee  better  than  ever  any  one  else 
will,  if  thou  livest  to  be  a  hundred.  Thou  canst  not 
read  the  signs,  but  I  have  not  lived  in  the  world  all  these 
years  for  nothing."  And  Marcelline  nods  her  head 
sagaciously. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

GUY  TELLS  HIS  STORY. 

SIR  GUY  lighted  his  cigar  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  and 
proceeded  to  walk  leisurely  homewards,  thinking  as  he 
went.  The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  tell  Milly,  and 
to  ask  her  opinion  and  advice.  Not  as  to  his  marrying 
Dolores — that  was  already  irrevocably  decided — but  as  to 
various  preliminaries  and  arrangements.  Should  he  tell 
her  everything?  He  remembered  that,  on  the  night 
when  Dolores  came  to  him  in  Paris,  Milly  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her ;  not  sufficient,  perhaps,  to  enable  her  to 
recognize  the  child  again,  but  Adrian  had  been  in  the 
room  with  her,  had  spoken  to  her;  there  would  be  no 
possibility  of  deceiving  him  as  to  her  identity.  Another 
thought  vexed  him.  Stevens  was  acquainted  with  the 
whole  affair;  and,  although  he  had  great  confidence  in 
him,  he  knows  the  best  servants  are  given  to  gossip.  All 
things  considered,  he  resolves  to  confide  completely  in 


GUY  TELLS  HIS  STORY. 


239 


Mrs.  Charteris,  in  whose  judgment  he  has  profound  con- 
fidence. 

He  finds  Milly  looking  very  elegant,  and  beautifully 
dressed  as  usual,  buried  in  a  dormeuse,  reading  a  French 
novel.  She  throws  it  away  as  he  enters. 

" Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  back! — I  am  bored 
to  death.  Where  is  Adrian  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  have  not  seen  him  since  lunch." 

"What !  did  he  not  dine  with  you ?"  asks  Milly,  red- 
dening with  something  that  is  not  pleasure. 

"  No ;  I  dined  alone." 

"You  might  have  given  me  the  pleasure  of  your  com- 
pany, I  think,"  she  remarks,  with  some  petulance. 

"  I  should  have  been  only  too  glad.  The  last  I  heard 
of  you  was  that  you  had  a  headache,  and  were  not  to  be 
disturbed.  How  is  it  now?" 

"  Oh,  I  slept  it  off;  and  when  I  came  down  there  was 
no  dinner  ordered,  and  no  one  to  dine  with — and  I  hate 
dining  alone  !"  she  finishes,  in  a  vexed  tone. 

"If  I  had  only  known — but,  of  course,  I  imagined 
Adrian " 

"  You  don't  think  anything  can  have  happened  to  him, 
Guy?"  asks  Milly,  anxiously. 

"  How  fond  she  is  of  him  !"  he  thinks,  bitterly. 

"  I  suspect  he  can  take  care  of  himself.  I  dare  say  he 
is  dining  with  some  one.  By  the  way,  now  I  think  of  it, 
he  told  me  he  had  met  Vansittart  this  morning ;  they  are 
very  old  chums,  you  know." 

Milly  bites  her  lip.  She  is  so  fond  of  Adrian  that  the 
least  slight  from  him  wounds  her  to  the  quick. 

"Well,"  she  says,  forcing  a  smile,  "and  what  have  you 
been  doing? — have  you,  too,  found  an  old  chum?  Oh. 
I  forgot ;  of  course  you  have  been  to  call  on  your  pretty 
little  friend  whom  we  met  in  the  Louvre  this  morning." 


140  DOLORES. 

Guy  draws  a  chair  close  to  his  sister-in-law,  and,  look- 
ing at  her,  says  suddenly, — 

"I  am  going  to  confide  in  you,  Milly;  I  want  your 
advice." 

"  Yes,  do  tell  me,"  she  answers,  with  the  ready  interest 
and  sympathy  that  is  one  of  her  greatest  charms. 

"I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"You?" 

Milly  preserves  her  countenance  admirably,  but  his 
words  give  her  a  shock.  She  had  known  that  he  was 
fond  of  her,  and,  though  not  aware  of  the  depth  of  his 
love  for  her,  was  still  certain  of  being  dear  to  him.  Per- 
haps she  has  regretted  it — certainly  she  feels  nothing 
more  for  him  than  her  relationship  as  his  brother's  wife 
warrants ;  but  it  is,  after  all,  rather  pleasant  than  otherwise 
to  have  an  utterly  devoted  slave,  who  asks  nothing  more 
than  to  be  at  the  beck  and  call  of  the  adored  one,  and  to 
make  everything  as  smooth  and  pleasant  as  possible  for  her. 

Neither  can  any  woman  reconcile  it  to  herself  that  a 
man  who  loves  her  can  entertain  the  idea  of  marrying 
another  woman ;  so,  when  he  does,  she  generally  tells 
herself  that  she  has  been  mistaken  in  believing  him  to  be 
really  fond  of  her,  and  feels  a  little  angry  with  herself, 
and  somewhat  aggrieved  with  him. 

"Of  course  it  is  nothing  to  her.  She  does  not  care !" 
Guy  is  thinking,  with  some  bitterness,  whilst  Milly  is 
striving  sedulously,  and  succeeding  very  well,  in  conceal- 
ing her  chagrin. 

"Can  you  guess  to  whom?" 

"  Not  to  your  friend  of  this  morning?" 

"Yes.     Why  not?"  he  asks,  a  little  sharply. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Milly  answers.  "Somehow  I  fancied 
she  was  the  property  of  that  nice,  gentlemanly-looking 
man  who  was  with  her." 


GUY  TELLS  HIS  STORY.  241 

"H'm!  I  don't  think  there  was  anything  very  nice- 
looking  about  him,"  he  says,  grimly. 

"Oh,  I  did,  Guy.  He  had  such  a  gentle  manner,  and 
looked  so  sad  about  the  eyes  and  mouth,  as  though  he 
had  had  some  great  trouble.  Indeed,  I  did  not  fancy  he 
seemed  very  happy  this  morning." 

"  Women  are  more  observant  than  men,  I  suppose,"  is 
the  rather  rough  retort.  "I  was  not  particularly  struck 
with  Captain  Etherege  in  any  way." 

"Etherege!  Etherege!"  repeated  Milly;  "was  he 
ever  in  the — th?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  don't  you  remember  about  his  wife?" 

"No.     What  about  her?" 

"  She  was  a  horrid  woman  ;  he  was  divorced  from  her. 
I  remember  her  quite  well." 

"  I  don't  suppose  she  had  much  of  a  time  with  him," 
says  Guy. 

"Indeed,  you  are  quite  wrong.  What  makes  you  so 
prejudiced,  Guy?  Are  you  jealous  of  him?" 

"No,  certainly  not,"  he  answers,  heartily  and  truth- 
fully. 

"He  was  devoted  to  her — goodness  itself;  and  she — 
well,  never  mind ;  we  won't  talk  about  her." 

"I  wonder  which  is  the  worst,"  says  Guy,  looking  in- 
tently into  the  fire,  as  if  to  read  an  answer  there — "  to 
break  your  heart  after  what  you  want  and  cannot  get,  or 
to  get  it  and  let  it  break  your  heart  ?' ' 

"I  do  not  know,"  Milly  answers,  looking  into  the  fire 
too,  with  a  very  sad  inflexion  in  her  voice.  "Oh,"  she 
adds,  with  sudden  enthusiasm,  "  if  one  could  only  have 
what  one  loves  in  this  world,  and  not  be  disappointed  by 
it,  what  better  heaven  would  any  of  us  want?" 

"Ay,"  answers  Guy,  in  a  low  voice — "what  indeed?" 
U  21 


24»  DOLORES. 

Both  are  thinking  of  their  own  case.  Milly  recovers 
herself  the  first. 

"Come,"  she  says,  gayly,  "I  am  waiting  for  your 
romance." 

"  It  is  almost  a  romance,"  Guy  answers ;  "  it  wouldn't 
make  half  a  bad  novel.  But  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a 
question  first." 

"Ask  on." 

"  Do  you  ever  remember  to  have  seen  Dolores  before?' 

"  Dolores ! — what  a  pretty  name  !     No.     Why  ?" 

"Think." 

Milly  thinks.  "  There  is  something  familiar  in  her 
face.  But — stay,"  and  she  looks  for  a  moment  curiously 
and  intently  at  Guy — "surely  not !"  And  she  hesitates, 
and  reddens  a  little  with  the  fear  of  being  indiscreet. 

"Surely  yes.  I  think  you  have  it,"  he  answers.  "You 
need  not  be  afraid  to  speak.  I  assure  you  there  is  no 
delicate  ground." 

"How  long  ago  is  it  since  I  might  have  seen  her?" 
Milly  interrogates,  cautiously. 

"  Two  days  after  I  first  met  you." 

"Then  I  know."  And  she  looks  a  little  strangely  at 
him.  "Well,  Guy?" 

"Yes,  I  know  it  sounds  odd,"  he  answers,  frowning  a 
little ;  "  but  it  won't  when  I  have  told  you  all.  I  know 
some  women  would  shrug  their  shoulders  and  raise  their 
eyebrows,  but  not  you,  Milly — not  you,"  he  repeats, 
looking  very  earnestly  at  her. 

Not  to  forfeit  her  brother-in-law's  good  opinion,  Milly 
does  not  outwardly  do  either,  but  mentally  she  does  both 
very  much  indeed.  She  remembers  Guy's  sudden  dis- 
appearance, and  Adrian's  laughing  and  mysterious  man- 
ner when  questioned  by  the  Vivians ;  and,  in  spite  of 
his  passionate  declaration  of  love  for  herself  on  his  return 


GUY  TELLS  HIS  STORY.  243 

after  three  days'  absence,  she  had  always  thought  there 
was  something  connected  with  his  sudden  disappearance 
that  had  better  not  be  inquired  into  too  minutely. 

"  It  would  be  a  difficult  story  to  tell  to  any  one  but 
you,"  Guy  continues,  almost  pleadingly — "in  fact,  I 
cauld  not  tell  any  one  else  the  exact  truth  of  the  story,  for 
her  sake  as  much  as  mine,  but  to  you  I  will  tell  it  word 
for  word,  as  I  know  it  myself." 

"You  know  you  may  rely  upon  me,"  she  answers,  very 
kindly  and  softly. 

"  I  know  I  may.     God  bless  you  !" 

He  takes  her  hand,  and  presses  it  fervently,  almost 
reverently. 

"Well,  then,  when  I  went  to  Normandy  last  spring,  I 
was  walking  along  a  most  picturesque  and  tumble-down 
old  street  in  Rouen,  with  a  view  to  sketching  it,  when  I 
met  one  of  the  prettiest  little  girls  I  thought  I  had  ever 
seen,  accompanied  by  an  elderly  Frenchwoman — just  one 
of  those  stout,  clean,  comely-looking  women,  the  very 
type  of  attached  domestic  and  friend-of-the-family  sort, 
you  know,  Milly.  Well,  I  immediately  wanted  to  sketch 
her." 

"What,  the  attached  domestic?"  laughs  Milly. 

"  No,  the  girl.  So  I  followed  them  up  the  hill — a  good 
stiff  one,  too,  that  made  the  fat  servant  puff  and  blow 
and  chide  the  girl,  who  seemed  as  frolicsome  as  a  kitten. 
I  was  afraid  the  old  party  would  be  rather  a  dragon ;  but 
I  followed  at  a  respectful  distance,  and  by  just  arriving 
opportunely  at  the  garden-gate,  and  reaching  the  key, 
which  had  fallen  on  the  grass,  and  so  preventing  Mar- 
celline  having  to  walk  an  additional  half-mile,  I  crept 
into  conversation  and  favor ;  and  the  end  of  it  was,  I  was 
allowed  to  enter,  not  only  then,  but  several  times  after- 
wards, to  sketch  Dolores,  who  put  me  very  much  in  mind 


244  DOLORES. 

of  the  'Cruche  Cassee.'  What  do  you  think?  Don't 
you  see  a  likeness?" 

"Yes,  but  your  Dolores  is  prettier,"  says  Milly,  mag- 
nanimously. 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  thousand  times  !"  assents  Guy,  heartily. 

"  Well,  but  tell  me,  Guy,  was  she  living  all  alone  with 
the  servant?" 

"  Only  for  the  moment.  Her  mother  had  gone  to 
England  on  business,  and  I  was  given  to  understand  that, 
had  she  been  at  home,  small  chance  should  I  have  stood 
of  putting  foot  inside  the  gate." 

"And  where  is  her  mother  now?" 

"  Dead,  a  few  months  ago." 

"  Do  you  know  who  she  was  or  anything  about  her?" 

"  Not  a  syllable ;  nor  does  any  one  else,  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out.  There  is  some  mystery." 

"  How  unfortunate  !"  Mrs.  Charteris  cannot  help  say- 
ing. The  more  she  hears,  the  less  she  likes  the  idea  of 
Guy's  proposed  marriage. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  nuisance,  certainly,"  Guy  answers,  biting 
his  lip.  It  begins  to  look  rather  unsatisfactory  to  him, 
too.  "  All  that  is  known  of  Mrs.  Power  is  that  she  went 
to  live  at  Rouen  some  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  ago,  and 
lived  a  most  secluded  life.  At  her  death,  which  was  sud- 
den, no  clue  could  be  found  to  her  identity.  Etherege 
did  all  he  could  to  trace  it,  but  even  her  lawyers  knew 
nothing  about  her  or  her  antecedents ;  I  heard  all  this  from 
Dolores  to-night.  Still,  I  suppose  as  the  man  you  have 
such  a  high  opinion  of  was  content  to  take  her  on  trust, 
you  will  not  blame  me  for  doing  the  same?" 

"But,  my  dear  Guy,  yours  is  a  very  different  case. 
Your  position  makes  it  a  much  more  important  matter 
whom  you  marry  than  whom  Captain  Etherege  chooses. 
Besides,  of  course,  through  his  unhappy  position,  though 


GUY  TELLS  HIS  STORY.  245 

not  a  particle  of  blame  attaches  to  him,  many  women 
would  think  twice  before  consenting  to  be  his  wife." 

Milly  is  a  woman  of  the  world ;  she  knows  nothing  of 
Dolores,  has  no  possible  interest  in  her ;  but  she  is  fond 
of  Guy,  and,  besides,  he  is  the  head  of  the  family;  so 
she  may  be  pardoned  for  not  entering  very  heartily  into 
a  scheme  in  which  she  sees  no  advantage  to  him  in  any 
way. 

"  Are  you  so  deeply  in  love,  then  ?' '  she  continues,  as 
he  makes  no  answer. 

"No!"  looking  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  away 
again;  "it  is  not  that.  She  is  a  dear  sweet  little  thing. 
I  am  sure  it  would  be  impossible  to  live  with,  and  not  to 
love  her:  still " 

"Still  what?" 

"  When  I  have  finished  my  story  you  will  know.  I 
had  been  nearly  a  fortnight  in  Rouen,  going  up  almost 
every  day  to  make  my  sketch,  when  one  day  Marcelline 
came  down  to  the  hotel  to  see  me,  and  begged  me  to  go 
away,  because  the  child  was  getting  fond  of  me.  She  was 
rather  excited,  blamed  herself  for  having  allowed  me  to 
go  to  the  house  at  all,  appealed  to  my  feelings,  and  finally 
extorted  a  promise  from  me  to  leave  Rouen  at  once,  with- 
out seeing  my  little  model  again.  Milly,"  he  says,  break- 
ing off  suddenly,  "I  can  see,  by  the  expression  of  your 
face,  that  you  think  it  was  all  a  plant ;  but  you  don't  know 
Marcelline.  She  is  the  best  creature  that  ever  lived." 

"  My  dear  Guy,  I  did  not  know  you  were  a  thought- 
reader  !"  says  Milly,  laughing.  "  And  you  know  it  would 
be  quite  in  character  with  the  attached  domestic  to  make 
a  good  match  for  her  young  mistress." 

"  Now,  Milly,  don't  be  like  other  women,"  utters  Guy, 
reproachfully.  "  That  is  just  like  Mrs.  Vivian." 

"I  won't  offend  again,"  she  answers,  penitently,  "but 

21* 


»46  DOLORES. 

you  must  forgive  me  if  all  my  interest  in  this  story  is 
centred  in  you." 

Guy's  face  brightens. 

"  How  well  you  understand  the  art  of  saying  pleasant 
things!"  he  says.  "Well,  I  went  away.  Of  course  I 
thought  it  quite  absurd,  but  still  I  went ;  and  then  you 
know,  Milly,"  he  added,  pausing,  "that  night  we  were 
dining  with  the  Vivians.  Do  you  remember  my  being 
called  out  of  the  room?" 

"Perfectly,"  she  says,  with  intense  interest. 

Another  longer  pause. 

"Poor  little  darling,"  says  Guy,  in  a  low,  tender 
voice,  "  how  little  she  dreamed  what  a  foolish  thing  she 
was  doing !  She  had  followed  me  here,  not  even  know- 
ing my  address,  nor  having  ever  been  in  Paris  before." 

"Alone?"  Milly  asks,  holding  her  breath. 

"  Yes,  poor  little  soul !  She  had  escaped  from  Mar- 
celline,  and  come  off  alone  to  Paris.  By  the  most  won- 
derful and  merciful  intervention  of  Providence,  she  met 
Stevens,  and  he  brought  her  here  at  once." 

"Well,  Guy?"  (impatiently). 

"Well,  Milly,  I  think  you  may  guess  the  rest.  I  sent 
Stevens  off  to  tell  Marcelline  at  once,  and  took  the  poor 
little  thing  back  next  morning  by  the  first  train." 

Milly  puts  her  hand  in  his ;  there  are  tears  in  her  beau- 
tiful eloquent  eyes ;  no  need  for  her  to  speak  her  thoughts. 

"Any  other  man  would  have  done  the  same,"  he  says, 
hastily. 

"  Not  every  other,"  she  replies. 

"  I  should  have  married  her  then  and  there,  only " 

But,  remembering,  he  leaves  his  sentence  unfinished ;  nor 
does  Milly  ask  for  the  remainder. 

Her  womanly  sympathy  is  aroused.  "Poor  little  thing !" 
she  murmurs,  softly. 


GUY  TELLS  HIS  STORY.  247 

"And  so,"  he  proceeds,  "  I  stayed  a  day  or  two  in 
Rouen,  to  pacify  the  poor  little  girl,  and  then  I  came 
back  here." 

Another  longer  pause,  broken  at  last  by  Milly. 

"But,  Guy,  how  came  she  to  be  engaged  to  Captain 
Etherege?" 

"  He  went  to  stay  at  Rouen  some  little  time  afterwards 
with  his  sister,  and  met  her  in  the  church  several  times — 
and,  don't  think  me  a  conceited  fool  for  telling  you, 
Milly,  he  saved  her  from  drowning  herself." 

"  Poor  little  soul ! — how  fond  she  must  have  been  of 
you!" 

"Yes,  it  seems  strange,  doesn't  it?"  he  says,  half 
laughing,  half  bitter. 

"Guy,"  says  Milly,  looking  at  him  with  grave  eyes,  in 
which  there  is  some  reproach. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  answers,  hastily.  "  I  will  not 
offend  again." 

"Then,"  suggests  Milly,  "he  fell  in  love  with  her  and 
proposed  to  marry  her.  But,  Guy,  if  she  was  so  devoted 
to  you,  how  came  she  to  accept  him?" 

"  I  hardly  know,"  he  says,  hesitating.  "  I  suppose  he 
was  kind  to  her,  and  she  had  not  much  to  look  forward 
to." 

"But,  Guy,"  asks  his  companion,  practically,  "where 
is  the  sister?  Miss  Power  is  surely  not  staying  in  Paris 
alone  with  Captain  Etherege?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  answers,  hastily,  and  frowning  a  little; 
"Marcelline  is  with  her." 

"Toujours  la  fide le  Marcelling.  But,"  she  adds,  per- 
sistently, "  where  is  the  sister?" 

"Upon  my  life,  I  never  thought  to  ask  !"  replies  Guy, 
with  some  embarrassment. 

"Tell  me  what  happened  after  our  strange  rencontre 


»48  DOLORES. 

this  morning.     Did  Captain  Etherege  at  once  give  up  all 
claim,  and  hand  her  over  to  you?" 

"You  see,"  says  Guy,  thoughtfully,  "he  knew  the  first 
part  of  the  story,  and  I  suppose  he  thought  it  was  rather 
hopeless  to  marry  a  woman  who  liked  another  man." 

"Tell  me  about  your  interview,"  Milly  says,  impa- 
tiently.    "Did  he  say,  'Bless  you,  my  children,'  or  did 
he  seem  to  feel  it  very  much  ?' ' 
Guy  looks  puzzled. 

"He  did  not  betray  much  feeling,  certainly;  but,  with 
those  cold,  self-contained  fellows,  you  never  can  tell  what 
they  really  suffer." 

Whence  Milly  draws  the  conclusion  that  Captain  Eth- 
erege is  not  so  very  sorry  to  be  relieved  from  his  engage- 
ment, and  is  less  satisfied  than  ever  with  Guy's  proposed 
marriage. 

"In  fact,"  proceeds  the  young  man,  "I  should  never 
for  one  instant  have  dreamed  of  standing  in  his  way,  only 
he  drew  such  a  picture  of  what  the  poor  child  had  suffered, 
that  I  felt  in  honor  bound  almost.  But  she  is  a  dear, 
sweet  little  thing,"  he  breaks  off,  as  though  conscious  of 
doing  her  wrong,  "and  I  am  sure  to  be  very  happy  with 
her." 

"And  I  suppose  you  mean  to  marry  her  at  once?" 

"Yes,  as  soon  as  possible.  I  want  your  help,  Milly; 
I  know  I  may  ask  you." 

"Anything  in  the  world,"  she  says,  heartily. 

"  I  ventured  to  say  you  would  go  to  her  to-morrow  and 
bring  her  here." 

"Here!"  echoes  Milly. 

"  Is  there  anything  against  it?"  he  asks,  looking  up. 

Mrs.  Charteris  does  not  answer  immediately. 

"Well,  Milly?" 

"I  hardly  like  to  say  it,  Guy,  but — but  does  it  not 


WHA  T  MILL  Y  THINKS. 


249 


occur  to  you  that  it  might  be  as  well  for  her  not  to  come 
here?"  Seeing  him  look  puzzled,  she  adds,  "Is  it  not 
just  possible  that  some  of  the  servants  here  might  remem- 
ber her?  and  you  know  how  they  talk  !" 

"  You  are  quite  right,  as  you  always  are.  But  what  am 
I  to  do  with  her  until  I  get  the  ceremony  performed ;  I 
thought,  if  she  were  with  you  for  a  fortnight  or  so,  that 
would  stop  people's  mouths." 

"That  would  not  do  it;  and  do  you  know,  Guy,  I 
think  seriously  it  will  be  a  great  mistake  if  you  get  mar- 
ried in  such  a  violent  hurry?" 

"  It  must  be  done  !"  he  answers,  resolutely. 

"There  is  no  must  about  it,"  she  retorts.  "It  will 
be  an  injustice  to  herself  as  well  as  to  you.  Listen  a 
moment  while  I  give  you  my  reasons." 

Guy  settles  himself  in  his  chair,  as  if  prepared  to  hear 
his  sister-in-law  talk  for  any  amount  of  time ;  but  there 
is  a  certain  fixed  expression  about  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  as  though  he  is  not  likely  to  be  convinced  that 
his  own  plan  is  not  the  better  one. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

WHAT   MILLY  THINKS. 

FIFTY  objections  to  the  marriage  crowded  into  Milly's 
brain ;  every  moment  the  idea  seemed  more  hateful  in 
her  eyes.  It  was  a  miserable  sacrifice,  that  Guy  was 
rushing  on  blindly  from  a  mistaken  sense  of  honor,  a 
Quixotic  chivalry.  And  not  only  was  he  about  to  commit 
a  fatal  error,  but  to  set  about  it  in  a  manner  that  would 
L* 


250 


DOLORES. 


probably  injure  the  happiness  of  his  whole  future.  She 
felt  almost  indignant  at  his  folly ;  in  her  own  mind  she 
could  not  refrain  from  thinking  that  he  was  the  dupe  of 
Dolores  and  the  French  servant.  Certainly  the  story,  as 
told  unconsciously  by  Guy,  tended  to  such  a  conclusion ; 
and  although  we  are  in  full  possession  of  the  facts,  Mrs. 
Charteris  was  not,  and  very  naturally  formed  an  idea  that 
Guy's  sensitive  nature  had  been  imposed  upon,  and  that 
he  is  about  miserably  to  throw  himself  away  from  a  mis- 
taken sense  of  honor.  And  if  he  married  her  in  this  hot 
haste,  what  would  the  world  say,  or,  rather,  what  would 
it  not  say? — what  would  Guy's  mother  think,  and  what 
story  would  she  be  able  herself  to  tell  plausible  enough 
to  satisfy  society  on  the  subject  of  his  choice  ?  She  feels 
almost  angry  with  him  for  having  brought  about  this 
dilemma;  but  there  is  no  anger  in  her  voice  as,  bend- 
ing forward,  her  cheek  resting  on  her  hand,  she  begins 
softly  to  urge  upon  him  her  convictions. 

"  My  dear  Guy,  have  you  thought  yet  what  you  are 
going  to  give  out  to  the  world  as  to  Lady  Wentworth's 
history  ?  You  will  hardly  tell  them  what  you  have  told 
me,  will  you?" 

"Most  certainly  not,"  he  answers,  emphatically. 
"Why  tell  them  anything?  Who  has  a  right  to  ask, 
except  my  own  family?" 

"But  the  moment  you  resent  the  world's  questioning, 
the  world  takes  upon  itself  to  find  its  own  answer;  and 
that  answer  is  invariably  the  very  last  one  you  would  give, 
or  wish  given,  yourself." 

"  What  could  any  one  dare  to  say?"  he  commences, 
indignantly. 

"  Of  course,"  replies  Milly,  softly,  "you  and  I  know 
perfectly" — she  says  this  with  a  secret  qualm — "  that  not 
a  syllable  could  justly  be  breathed  against  your  future 


WHAT  MILLY  THINKS.  251 

wife ;  but  you  must  admit  there  are  one  or  two  circum- 
stances which,  if  open  to  the  criticism  of  your  friends, 
are  not  so  satisfactory  as  we  could  altogether  wish.  Nay, 
Guy," — for  he  makes  an  impatient  movement — "you 
know  I  would  not  pain  you ;  I  am  only  speaking  to  you 
as  your  mother  would,  were  she  here  this  moment." 

"  I  will  keep  her  abroad  for  a  year,  until  people  have 
forgotten  to  ask  any  questions." 

"  Why  do  that !  You  must  be  anxious  to  see  your  own 
country  and  Wentworth  again  ;  you  have  been  away  from 
it  too  long  already." 

"Tell  me,  then,  Milly, — what  do  you  propose?" 

"  I  cannot  quite  answer  that  at  this  moment ;  I  want 
you  to  give  me  a  night  to  think  about  it.  But  I  do  urge 
your  not  dreaming  of  an  immediate  marriage.  It  would 
be  a  great  blow  to  your  mother,  set  every  one  talking  in 
the  country,  and  perhaps  make  your  wife's  position  doubt- 
ful, instead  of  her  being  at  once  able  to  take  her  own 
place.  Don't  you  agree  with  me  so  far?" 

"Yes,"  he  answers,  reluctantly. 

"Suppose,  now,"  with  a  sudden  inspiration,  "that  I 
were  to  dine  at  the  table-d* hote  of  a  certain  hotel  to- 
morrow— that  I  were  to  sit  next  a  charming  young  girl, 
to  whom  I  took  the  greatest  fancy ;  suppose  I  continued 
the  acquaintance,  and  became  so  fond  of  her  that  I  asked 
her  to  go  over  to  England  and  stay  with  me.  You  na- 
turally, being  constantly  with  us,  fall  in  love  with  my 
little  friend,  and,  eventually,  propose  to  her.  She  will, 
of  course,  be  invited  to  Wentworth,  to  stay  with  your 
mother;  and,  in  three  months  from  the  present  time,  what 
is  to  prevent  your  marrying  a  young  lady  whom  the  world 
knows  all  about?  For  it  will  not  be  very  difficult  to  make 
a  true  story  about  her  orphaned  condition.  What  do 
you  think  of  the  idea,  Guy?" 


§52  DOLORES. 

"  Think !  I  think  you  are  the  cleverest  woman  in  the 
world!" 

"Then,  for  Stevens,"  she  says,  pausing, — "well,  you 
must  caution  him  against  alluding  to  the  past,  or  seeming 
to  recognize  either  Miss  Power  or  her  servant ;  and,  above 
all  things,  tell  him  to  keep  it  from  my  maid,  because  I  am 
not  to  be  supposed  to  know  anything  about  the  past." 

Guy  drums  on  the  floor  with  one  foot,  and  frowns  a 
little. 

"Yes,"  proceeds  Milly,  "I  know  it  is  hateful  to  you 
to  have  recourse  to  deception  of  any  kind ;  but  just  think, 
Guy,  for  her  sake,  whether  you  can  afford  to  brave  every- 
thing and  act  quite  straightforwardly.  You  see,  the 
Vivians  know  of  your  having  been  in  Rouen  last  year ; 
they  know  about  some  one  coming  to  you  in  Paris,  and 
your  going  back  again  to  Rouen.  Mrs.  Vivian  is  not  an 
ill-natured  woman,  but  she  is  inquisitive,  and  fond  of 
gossip,  and,  if  there  is  a  clue  to  unravel,  will  do  her  best 
to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it." 

"  But,  my  dear  Milly,  how  do  you  suppose  for  one  in- 
stant that  the  fact  of  her  having  lived  in  Rouen  all  her 
life  is  to  be  kept  a  secret?" 

"  I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  for  an  instant.  But 
hark  !  there  is  Adrian.  May  I  tell  him?" 

"  I  suppose  so ;  he  must  know  sooner  or  later ;  but  not 
before  me.  And,  Milly,"  he  adds,  hurriedly,  "tell  him 
not  to  chaff  me  about  it — I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"  I  will  mature  my  plans,  and  we  will  talk  them  over 
in  the  morning." 

The  door  opens,  and  Adrian  comes  in,  looking  hand- 
somer than  ever,  if  a  little  more  bored  and  languid. 

Milly  is  one  of  those  who  only  get  angry  with  people 
that  are  very  dear  to  them.  She  has  a  grand  armor  of 
pride  to  protect  her  from  the  petty  stings  of  life;  but 


WHAT  MILLY  THINKS. 


253 


once  she  loves,  that  one  to  whom  her  heart  is  given  has 
the  power  of  wounding  her  to  the  very  quick — a  power  so 
great  that  it  may  easily  be  abused  without  design.  This 
is,  at  the  same  time,  her  greatest  fault  and  her  greatest 
misfortune.  The  intonation  of  a  voice,  a  cold  or  wan- 
dering glance,  a  distraite  answer,  can  make  her  unhappy, 
a  slight  neglect  or  sharp  retort  cause  her  to  feel  passion- 
ately indignant  and  miserable.  She  is  as  irrational  and 
unreasonable  in  her  love  as  she  is  sensible  and  discreet  in 
every  other  matter.  With  the  whole  force  of  her  nature 
she  loves  Adrian — not  a  whit  the  less  because  she  does  not 
respect  him,  because  she  knows  him  for  what  he  is — an 
utterly  selfish  man.  Too  indolent  to  be  ill-tempered,  too 
fond  of  himself  easily  to  allow  anything  to  put  him  out, 
always  ready  to  be  kind  and  pleasant  when  it  does  not 
inconvenience  himself,  and  with  a  charming  grace  in  re- 
fusing to  do  what  he  does  not  care  for,  that  makes  his 
refusal  almost  as  good  as  other  people's  compliance. 

Milly  has  a  passion  for  good  looks ;  it  is  a  real  pleasure 
to  her  to  look  at  a  handsome  face,  and  she  can  gratify 
this  taste  perfectly  with  her  husband,  who  is  eminently 
handsome,  and  so  perfectly  aware  of  it  that  he  would 
consider  it  beneath  him  to  appear  conceited.  Guy  is 
"  quite  good-looking  enough  for  anything,"  as  his  friends 
say,  but  he  has  now  and  then  felt  a  twinge  of  envy  at 
seeing  how  irresistible  his  brother's  handsome  face  is  in 
the  eyes  of  most  women. 

"  I  dare  say  Dolores  won't  think  much  of  me  when  she 
has  seen  him,"  is  his  mental  comment,  as  Captain  Char- 
teris  comes  in,  looking  more  splendidly  handsome  even 
than  usual. 

There  is  something  irresistible  about  the  smiling  eyes, 
the  curved  mouth  that  the  golden  moustache  shades  but 
does  not  hide.  At  the  bare  sight  of  him  Milly's  wrath 


254 


DOLORES. 


melts  like  snow  before  the  sun,  her  eyes  shine  a  welcome 
on  him,  her  own  face  becomes  radiant — "and  beautiful 
too,"  Guy  thinks. 

"Well,  Guy,  what  have  you  been  about?"  Adrian 
says,  not  even  noticing  his  wife,  whose  face  falls,  and 
whose  heart  gives  a  little  indignant  throb.  He  does  not 
apologize  for  having  left  her,  nor  ask  if  her  head  is  better ; 
and  her  anger  begins  to  return. 

"  I  sent  Stevens  to  you,  but  he  said  you  were  not  to 
be  disturbed  on  any  account.  What  were  you  doing  ? — • 
composing  a  valentine  or  a  love-letter,  or  taking  a  nap — 
eh  ?  Why,  how  glum  you  both  look  !  What's  up,  Milly?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  returns,  coldly,  looking  away  from 
him. 

"  We  had  a  deuced  good  dinner ;  you  had  better  have 
come  with  me,"  pursues  Captain  Charteris,  not  noticing, 
or  appearing  to  notice,  his  wife's  displeasure.  "Where 
did  you  dine?" 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  going  to  dine  out,"  answers 
Guy,  "  so  I  dined  alone  at  a  place  in  the  Rue  Richelieu." 

"Well,  Milly,  and  what  did  you  do?"  he  asks,  with  a 
yawn. 

"  I  dined  alone,  which,  as  you  know,  I  am  particularly 
fond  of  doing,"  says  Milly. 

"  Oh  !  I  didn't  think  you'd  dine  at  all ;  people  don't, 
generally,  when  they  have  a  headache." 

"You  might  have  left  word  you  were  going  out,"  she 
returns,  trying  not  to  be  angry. 

"  I  did  not  know,  when  I  saw  Fentum,  that  I  was  going 
out ;  but  when  I  heard  from  her  that  you  were  not  to  be 
disturbed,  and  the  same  from  Guy's  man  about  him,  I 
went  and  found  Vansittart,  and  we  dined  together.  Capi- 
tal dinner! — deuced  dear,  though!"  And  he  pulls  out 
the  bill  of  fare,  and  hands  it  to  his  brother. 


WHAT  MILLY  THINKS.  255 

"Ninety-five  francs,"  Guy  reads  to  himself,  and  in- 
wardly comments,  "  Hang  it  all !  if  I  owed  nearly  all  my 
money  to  my  wife,  I  think  I'd  be  a  trifle  less  lavish  with 
it." 

But,  to  do  Milly  justice,  as  long  as  Adrian  is  good  to 
her,  she  begrudges  him  nothing,  and  is  perfectly  willing 
to  deny  herself,  that  he  may  have  everything  he  wants. 
Adrian  accepts  it  all  as  his  due,  and  does  not  see  any 
particular  generosity  in  his  wife's  handing  over  everything 
she  has  into  his  keeping  with  unquestioning  confidence. 
If  she  had  not  had  money,  he  would  certainly  not  have 
married  her ;  and  already  he  considers  that  he  has  made 
an  enormous  sacrifice  in  giving  up  his  freedom,  for  which 
her  fortune,  were  it  ten  times  as  great,  could  not  compen- 
sate. 

"  I  suppose  you  were  having  a  very  interesting  conver- 
sation, and  I  interrupted  it?"  says  Adrian,  with  a  yawn. 
"  It's  only  half-past  eleven"  (looking  at  his  watch),  "  but, 
as  there  is  nothing  else  to  do,  I  may  as  well  go  to  bed — • 
Unless  you'll  come  out  for  a  stroll?"  he  adds,  turning  to 
Guy. 

But  Guy,  seeing  that  Milly  is  vexed,  says  he  is  tired, 
and  does  not  care  to  go  out  again ;  and  so,  wishing  them 
good-night,  he  goes. 

Milly  wants  to  tell  her  husband  the  news  of  Guy's 
engagement,  but  she  is  angry  with  him,  and  can  hardly 
command  her  voice  sufficiently  to  begin.  If  he  would 
only  say  a  kind  word,  or  express  a  regret  at  having  left 
her  to  dine  alone,  she  could  be  pleasant  again  directly ;  but 
he  takes  a  book  and  begins  to  read.  It  is  his  theory  that, 
if  a  woman  is  out  of  temper  (and  he  has  rarely  had  any- 
thing but  pleasant  looks  from  them,  except  an  occasional 
outburst  of  jealousy),  the  only  thing  is  to  leave  her  quite 
alone  until  she  comes  round.  As  to  a  quarrel,  a  scene, 


256  DOLORES. 

or  an  explanation,  it  would  be  far  too  much  trouble ;  be- 
sides, it  would  never  enter  his  brain  to  imagine  he  could 
be  in  the  wrong.  He  does  not  understand  Milly  the 
least  in  the  world,  and  is  of  opinion  that  she  has  the 
"devil's  own  temper,"  as  he  expresses  it;  but  he  has 
heard  that  most  married  women  have  the  same,  so  the 
only  thing  is  to  keep  out  of  her  way  until  she  gets» 
over  it. 

Milly  begins  herself  to  think  that  she  is  bad-tempered  ; 
scarcely  a  day  passes  but  Adrian  vexes  her  in  some  way, 
anrl,  although  she  tries  hard  to  conceal  the  bitterness  she 
feels,  she  loves  him  too  much  not  to  resent  what  she  thinks 
unkindness  or  neglect  on  his  part.  Milly  was  too  exact- 
ing, and  Adrian  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  suit  a 
woman  of  her  temperament.  She  told  herself  this  a  thou- 
sand times  in  the  day ;  but  it  was  additionally  bitter  to 
her  from  the  fact  that  she  had  been  used  to  receive  willing 
homage  and  attention.  She  had  been  spoiled  and  flattered 
by  a  dozen  men  who  had  been  only  too  happy  to  humor  her 
least  caprice ;  and  until  her  marriage  with  Adrian,  she  had 
looked  upon  all  their  acts  of  devotion  as  only  her  right 
and  due.  Captain  Charteris  was  charming  in  society,  but 
he  could  not  be  bored  by  playing  at  company-manners  at 
home.  It  was  absurd  to  expect  a  man  to  open  the  door 
or  ring  the  bell  for  his  wife,  or  otherwise  make  a  lackey 
of  himself.  Milly,  who  had  been  used  to  all  ihefletits  soins 
that  a  woman  values,  felt  that  the  absence  of  them  be- 
tokened a  want  of  affection  on  her  husband's  part.  Since 
Guy  had  been  with  them,  he  had  been  so  thoughtful  and 
courteous  to  her,  almost  reading  her  wishes,  and  only  too 
happy  if  he  could  satisfy  the  least  of  them. 

Captain  Charteris  watched  his  brother  with  some  amuse- 
ment. 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  would  say,  with  his  indolent 


WHAT  MILLY  THINKS. 


»57 


smile,  "  it's  very  jolly  waiting  upon  other  people's  wives. 
I  don't  mind  that  myself;  but  wait  till  you  get  one  of 
your  own." 

And  now  she  was  going  to  lose  Guy  too,  and  she  began 
to  think  of  a  thousand  virtues  and  good  qualities  in  him 
that  had  scarcely  struck  her  much  until  now.  Adrian 
must  be  told,  so  she  will  endeavor  to  ignore  her  wrongs 
and  commence.  Try  as  she  may,  she  cannot  summon  up 
quite  a  good  grace. 

"Adrian." 

"Well?"  he  answers,  not  looking  up. 

"Is  your  book  so  very  interesting?" 

"Yes,  rather." 

"  More  interesting  than  my  conversation?" 

' '  A  good  deal  more. ' ' 

"  Thank  you.  Perhaps  you  take  some  interest  in  your 
brother's  affairs?" 

"  Not  particularly,"  he  answers,  still  reading. 

"He  is  going  to  be  married,"  says  Milly,  quietly. 

"The  deuce  he  is  !"  Adrian  exclaims,  looking  at  her. 
"  What  an  infernal  fool !  Whom  to  ?" 

"It  is  rather  a  long  story,"  she  answers,  trying  to 
swallow  her  anger.  "  Perhaps  you  would  rather  continue 
your  book?" 

"No,  I  should  not.  I  would  rather  hear  your  story," 
he  adds,  smiling  graciously.  "Come  and  tell  me." 

Milly  is  weak.  When  her  sovereign  lord  holds  out  the 
sceptre  to  her,  she  can  only  prostrate  herself  at  his  feet. 
So  she  rises,  and,  going  to  him,  seats  herself  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair. 

"Adrian,"  she  says,  caressingly,  "  you  know  it  was  not 
kind  of  you  to  go  out  and  leave  me  alone  to-day." 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  would  be  sure  to  have  Guy;  and 
you  know  he  waits  upon  you  and  looks  after  you  much 

R  22* 


858  DOLORES. 

better  than  I  do.  But  tell  me,  whom  is  he  going  to 
marry?" 

"You  know  I  told  you  at  lunch  about  our  meeting  a 
girl  in  the  Louvre  who  had  a  fainting-fit." 

"Yes." 

"  He  is  going  to  marry  her." 

"But  who  is  she?  Where  did  he  meet  her?  How 
long  has  he  known  her?" 

For  Guy's  sake  Milly  wants  to  make  the  best  of  the 
story ;  but,  as  she  proceeds,  she  feels  every  moment  that 
it  is  more  and  more  unsatisfactory.  During  its  progress 
her  husband  interpolates  many  ejaculations  of  contempt 
and  derision.  At  its  close  he  gives  a  prolonged  whistle. 

"Guy  always  was  the  biggest  fool  about  women,"  he 
comments.  "I  thought  he  would  end  by  some  such 
scrape  as  this.  Rather  an  interesting  addition  to  the 
family — the  new  sister-in-law,  eh,  Milly?" 

"  She  may  be  very  nice,"  Milly  answers,  "and  she  is 
certainly  pretty." 

"If  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  be  dragged  into  it;  let 
Guy  manage  it  as  best  he  can,  if  he  is  such  an  ass." 

"I  don't  think  that  would  be  wise;  the  only  thing  we 
have  to  do,  since  he  is  bent  upon  it,  is  to  make  the  best 
of  it." 

"  I  don't  see  there's  any  best  to  be  made  about  it. 
You  can't  prevent  the  whole  thing  coming  out  one  day, 
and  then  nobody  will  have  two  opinions  about  her.  I 
don't  doubt  it's  all  right,  because  I  know  what  Guy  is; 
but  you  won't  make  anybody  else  believe  it." 

"We  shall  see,"  replies  Milly,  with  feminine  astuteness. 
"You  see,  if  we  were  to  oppose  it,  he  would  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  marry  her  at  once ;  whereas,  if  we  delay  it, 
it  is  just  possible,"  she  says,  hesitating,  "that  he  may 
change  his  mind." 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  HAPPINESS t 


259 


'•'I  see.  You  are  a  clever  woman,  Milly,  but  I  rather 
doubt  if  you  are  a  match  for  the  ingenue  and  the  old 
Frenchwoman. ' ' 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  have  no  idea  of  any  scheming  or 
counter-scheming.  My  only  wish  is  for  your  brother's 
welfare." 

"  Very  good  of  you.  And  it  would  be  rather  a  bore  to 
lose  such  a  useful  slave,  eh,  Milly?"  And  Adrian  goes 
off  laughing,  thinking  he  has  divined  his  wife's  thoughts 
very  cleverly.  After  he  was  gone,  Milly  sits  thinking  in- 
tently, until  her  maid  comes  to  see  whether  she  means  to 
sit  up  all  night.  By  this  time  her  plans  are  tolerably 
matured,  and  after  breakfast,  the  following  morning,  she 
is  able  to  detail  them  for  Guy's  benefit.  She  has  also  ex- 
tracted from  her  husband  a  promise  not  to  interfere  in  any 
way  with  her  projects,  and  to  observe  the  strictest  silence 
about  his  previous  meeting  with  her  in  Paris,  as  well  as  to 
refrain  from  betraying  to  Dolores  herself  any  recollection 
of  having  seen  her  before. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

WHAT   CONSTITUTES   HAPPINESS? 

"Do  you  know,  Guy,"  says  Milly  to  her  brother-in- 
law  the  next  morning,  "  I  think  the  best  thing  I  could  do 
would  be  to  see  Captain  Etherege?  It  would  be  better 
for  the  world  not  to  know  anything  about  his  engagement 
to  Miss  Power,  and  I  feel  sure — oh,  quite  sure  !"  (emphat- 
ically), "that  he  would  be  as  little  likely  as  you  to  say 


a6o  DOLORES. 

anything  to  the  detriment  of  a  woman ;  but  I  am  a  little 
afraid  of  his  sister,  and " 

"  I  fear  it  is  too  late,"  breaks  in  Guy.  "  In  his  letter 
he  says  he  shall  be  in  Paris  up  to  ten  this  morning,  and," 
he  adds,  taking  out  his  watch,  "it  is  that  now." 

"  You  might  go  at  once,  before  breakfast ;  and  if  you 
told  him  I  was  very  desirous  to  see  him,  I  dare  say  he 
would  put  off  his  departure  for  an  hour  or  two.  It  is 
most  important,"  she  continues,  anxiously,  "  that  I  should 
see  him;  and  then,  later  on,  you  can  explain  to  your 
fiancee  that  it  will  be  better  for  me  not  to  go  to  her  and 
bring  her  back  here  to  day." 

Guy  takes  his  hat  obediently  and  goes,  though  he  likes 
neither  of  his  missions.  He  does  not  want  to  meet  Captain 
Etherege  again  ;  and  how  is  he  to  tell  Dolores  that  she 
cannot  openly  and  at  once  be  received  in  her  proper 
position  by  his  family  ?  If  he  had  not  such  a  high  opin- 
ion of  Milly's  prudence  and  discretion,  he  would  like  to 
have  things  his  own  way,  and  run  all  risks  for  the  future. 
But  Milly  has  put  it  on  the  highest  ground — his  duty 
towards  Dolores — and  he  cannot  help  seeing  that  she  is 
right. 

"  How  good  she  was  about  it !"  he  reflects,  as  he  goes 
along.  "  Most  women  would  have  made  themselves  dis- 
agreeable and  insinuated  all  sorts  of  things  \  because, 
after  all,  it  does  sound  a  strange  story  in  the  telling,  and 
a  woman  who  was  not  pure-minded  like  Milly  might  make 
evil  out  of  it.  Bless  her  !"  he  thought,  sighing,  "I  had 
rather  have  seen  her  married  to  most  of  my  friends  than 
Adrian.  I  hate  him  sometimes,  when  I  see  his  manner 
towards  her,  and  how  fond  she  is  of  him  !  A  woman  like 
that,  that  I  should  have  been  so  proud  of,  should  have 
worshiped  so,  to  be  valued  only  for  her  money !  Would 
to  God  I  had  met  her  before  her  first  marriage,  when  she 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  HAPPINESS?  26l 

had  none  !  But  I  suppose  she  would  never  have  cared  for 
me.  Women  don't  care  for  the  men  who  would  be  good 
to  them  and  love  them  !"  he  says  bitterly  to  himself. 

It  is  with  no  eager  heart  or  step  that  the  affianced  lover 
turns  in  at  the  doorway  of  the  hotel  where  his  betrothed 
is  staying;  and  when  the  porter  tells  him  that  Captain 
Etherege  has  left  the  previous  night,  he  breathes  more 
freely.  And  now  for  the  interview  with  Dolores,  which 
he  foresees  will  be  a  little  difficult. 

He  finds  her  sitting  before  an  untasted  roll  and  cup  of 
coffee — Marcelline  by  the  window  at  work  The  latter 
rises,  makes  him  a  curtsey,  and  prepares  to  withdraw,  but 
he  detains  her. 

"  No  need  to  run  away,  Marcelline.  You  know  we  can 
talk  all  our  secrets  without  being  afraid  of  vour  under- 
standing us." 

This  is  not  very  lover-like,  Marcelline  thinks,  and 
Dolores  feels  it  too,  and  the  color  comes  into  her  cheeks 
as  she  bends  over  her  coffee  and  pretends  to  drink  it. 

Guy  takes  her  hands  in  his,  and  looks  very  kindly  at 
her. 

"You  are  looking  quite  charming  this  morning,  Do- 
lores!" 

"  Am  I?"  she  says,  in  a  pleased  voice. 

"  Isn't  she,  Marcelline?"  he  says,  repealing  his  remark 
in  French.  And  Marcelline  smiles  and  nods  in  answer. 
"You  will  have  to  learn  English  now  you  are  going  to 
live  in  England,"  pursues  Guy,  taking  it  for  granted  that 
where  Dolores  goes  there  will  her  faithful  servant  attend 
her. 

"  Milor  is  very  good,"  she  answers,  "  but  as  for  leaving 
France "  And  she  finishes  her  sentence  with  a  doubt- 
ful shake  of  the  head. 

"  I  am  not  Milor,  Marcelline,"  laughs  the  young  man — 


262  DOLORES. 

"  only  plain  Sir  Guy.  And,  you  know,  if  you  don't  come 
to  England,  we  shall  have  to  settle  in  France.  I  am  sure 
your  little  lady  will  never  consent  to  part  from  you." 

"Ah,  Sir  Guy  is  joking  the  poor  old  woman.  Her 
little  angel  will  be  only  too  glad  to  be  rid  of  a  cross  old 
servant,  who  has  done  nothing  all  her  life  but  contradict 
her." 

Dolores  smiles  and  shakes  her  head. 

"  Cunning  old  Marcelline !  You  want  me  to  flatter 
you,  and  to  tell  Sir  Guy  that  I  should  die  without  you." 

"I  hear  Captain  Etherege  has  gone,"  says  Guy,  pres- 
ently. "  I  was  in  hopes  of  finding  him." 

"For  what?"  asks  the  child,  blankly. 

"  My  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Charteris,  wanted  to  see  him. 
Do  you  know  if  he  has  left  Paris?" 

"Yes,  he  has  gone.  But  why  should  Mrs.  Charteris 
want  to  see  him?"  she  asks,  suspiciously. 

"  I  am  not  quite  in  the  secret,"  answers  Guy,  evasively; 
"but,  since  he  is  gone,  it  is  of  course  impossible." 

"And  Madame  your  sister,  is  she  coming  here  this 
morning?" 

"No-o,"  he  says,  hesitating,  "not  this  morning.  She 
thinks — we  think " 

"Sir  Guy,"  interrupts  Dolores,  in  a  constrained  voice, 
"do  you  object  to  my  asking  Marcelline  to  quit  the 
room?" 

"  Certainly  not,  dearest;  but " 

"Marcelline,"  she  pursues,  with  quiet  dignity,  "will 
you  be  so  good  as  to  leave  us  for  a  few  minutes  ?' ' 

"But — certainly."  And  the  good  soul  retires  with 
great  alacrity.  Frenchwoman  though  she  is,  she  has  no 
scruples  about  leaving  her  young  charge  with  her  affianced 
husband.  Marcelline  has  an  immense  respect  for  and 
confidence  in  Englishmen. 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  HAPPINESS?  263 

Dolores  contains  herself  until  the  door  has  closed,  and 
then  bursts  out,  with  quivering  lips  and  flashing  eyes, — 

"  I  understand  all,  Sir  Guy.  Your  sister  does  not  wish 
you  to  marry  me  ;  she  has  been  persuading  you  from  it ; 
she  has  refused  to  receive  me.  I  am  quite  content ;  you 
are  free.  I  am  certain  that  you  only  pretend  to  love  me 
from  kindness — as  I  told  you  yesterday,  from  pity.  I 
never  wish  to  see  you  any  more,  and  I  pray  you  do  me 
the  kindness  to  leave  me." 

Guy  gives  vent  to  an  impatient  sigh ;  he  is  not  in  the 
humor  to  fight  over  again  the  uphill  that  he  conquered 
last  night,  and  he  says,  with  slight  irritation, — 

"  Why,  what  a  foolish  little  girl  it  is  !  Why  cannot 
you  be  reasonable,  Dolores  ?  At  all  events,  let  me  finish. 
Come,  darling."  And  he  suddenly  relents,  as  he  sees 
the  great  tears  standing  in  her  eyes,  and  goes  towards  her 
to  put  his  arm  round  her.  She  shakes  him  off  impatiently. 

"  Proceed,  monsieur.     I  am  listening." 

But  Guy  does  not  find  it  in  the  very  least  easy  to  pro- 
ceed. He  feels  that  in  her  present  touchy,  sensitive  mood 
he  will  only  be  adding  fuel  to  the  fire  by  giving  his  sister's 
reasons  for  not  going  to  her  at  once. 

"My  sister  is  not  quite  recovered  from  her  headache, 
and "  he  stammers. 

"You  have  just  thought  of  that  for  an  excuse,"  says 
Dolores,  looking  steadily  at  him.  "  Why  not  tell  me  the 
truth  ?  I  am  not  afraid  to  hear  it. ' ' 

And,  indeed,  it  is  the  little  maiden  who  looks  formida- 
ble now,  and  the  fine  big  young  man  who  is  the  coward. 
He  is  divided  between  two  feelings — the  fear  of  wounding 
Dolores,  and  the  horror  of  not  being  perfectly  frank  and 
straightforward.  But,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he 
resolves  to  tell  her  the  truth  as  tenderly  as  possible. 

"My  dear,"  he  says,  sitting  down  by  her,  "though 


264  DOLORES. 

you  are  the  sweetest  and  most  charming  little  woman  in 
the  world,  you  cannot  be  expected,  living  in  a  place  like 
Rouen  all  your  life,  to  know  a  great  deal  about  the  ways 
of  the  world  and  society ;  and  so,  darling,  you  know  you 
must  be  content  to  trust  a  little  to  people  who  do.  When 
you  are  Lady  Wentworth,  or  people  know  you  are  about 
to  be  so,  a  great  many  of  my  friends  and  acquaintances 
will  want  to  know  all  about  you — where  I  met  you,  how 
I  came  to  be  introduced  to  you — in  short,  people  are  so  in- 
quisitive, they  want  to  know  everything  about  everybody." 

"And  you,"  says  Dolores,  with  quick  perception,  "will 
be  ashamed  to  tell  them." 

"Why  should  I  be  ashamed,  darling?"  he  answers,  in 
the  frankest,  truthfulest  voice.  "What  have  you  given 
me  cause  for  except  to  feel  most  proud  and  grateful  for 
your  love?  Only " 

He  pauses,  and  a  deep  crimson  blush  suffuses  the  girl's 
face.  She  tries  to  hide  it  with  her  small  white  hands. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  cries,  ashamedly,  "I  know — I  know! 
If  people  knew  how  foolishly,  how  wickedly  I  had  behaved, 
how  bold  and  forward  I  had  seemed,  they  would  think  I 
know  not  what.  But  you,"  she  adds,  imploringly,  with 
eyes  downcast,  and  tremulous  mouth — "you  do  not  think 
ill  of  me  ?  Even  Philip  did  not  when  I  confessed  it  to 
him." 

"  I !  my  own  darling  !  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?' '  and 
he  kisses  her  hands  with  some  passion ;  "  what  could  I 
feel  but  proud  to  think  so  pure  and  sweet  a  creature  could 
care  so  much  for  me?  No,  dearest,  do  not  for  one  in- 
stant think  I  misunderstand  you ;  it  is  for  your  sake  only 
that  I  would  keep  our  secret  from  the  world,  which  is 
always  harsh  and  false  in  its  judgments." 

"  Guy,"  she  says,  imploringly,  "  you  have  not  told  your 
sister?" 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  HAPPINESS f  265 

"How  could  I  help  it,  dearest?"  he  answers,  uneasily. 
"  You  forget  my  brother  saw  you.  But,"  he  says,  hastily, 
"  you  need  have  no  fear  of  my  sister  knowing  all :  she  is 
too  pure-minded  herself  to  impute  harm  to  other  women." 

"Ah,"  says  Dolores,  with  instinctive  jealousy,  "I  no 
longer  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Charteris.  I  am  glad  she  has  not 
come.  And  Mary  is  coming  to-day.  I  know  she  will  be 
good  to  me,  even  though  I  have  behaved  with  such  in- 
gratitude to  poor  Philip." 

"Is  Miss  Etherege  coming?"  Guy  asks;  "and  does 
she  know " 

"How  should  she  know?  You  forget  it  is  only  since 
yesterday,  though,"  she  says,  with  a  sigh,  "  it  seems  much 
longer.  I  have  her  letter  here"  (drawing  it  from  her 
pocket);  "she  says  her  sister  has  taken  a  wonderful  turn 
for  the  better,  and,  as  her  mind  misgives  her  that  she 
ought  not  to  have  left  us  all  to  ourselves  in  Paris,  she  is 
coming,  and  will  be  in  Paris  to-night." 

Guy  draws  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  he  says,  very  heartily.  "And  Mrs. 
Charteris  will  be  very  glad  too.  She  will  come  to-morrow 
and  see  Miss  Etherege,  I  know,  and  after  that  I  hope  all 
will  be  plain  sailing.  And  now,  darling,  put  on  your 
bonnet,  and  I  will  send  for  a  carriage,  and  we  will  go  out 
shopping,  as  we  did  at  Rouen  that  day,  and  take  Mar- 
celline  with  us,  too." 

The  child  shakes  her  head  mournfully. 

"  No,  it  is  better  to  say  adieu,  and  leave  me.  I  will  go 
back  to  Rouen  with  Mary,  and,"  she  adds,  her  voice  fal- 
tering, "  I  shall  ask  one  of  the  good  sisters  whom  I  know, 
to  take  me  into  the  convent." 

"No,  my  sweet,"  answers  the  young  man,  taking  her 
in  his  arms ;  "so  dear  a  thing  as  you  was  never  meant  to 
be  buried  in  a  living  grave.  Please  God,  you  shall  see 

M  23 


266  DOLORES. 

the  bright  side  of  life,  and  know  what  happiness  and 
pleasure  there  is  in  the  world.  What !  tears  again  ? 
Come,  I  shall  begin  to  think  you  do  not  care  for  me." 

"I  wish — I  wish  I  hated  you!"  says  the  child,  almost 
passionately. 

Guy  laughs. 

"I  will  not  believe  you.  And  all  this  time,"  he  says, 
trying  to  divert  her  thoughts,  "  I  have  forgotten  that 
Mrs.  Charteris  is  waiting  to  know  about  Captain  Etherege, 
and  that  I  have  not  had  my  breakfast.  Well,"  he  adds, 
taking  his  hat,  "  I  shall  be  back  in  half  an  hour  with  a 
carriage,  and  shall  expect  to  find  you  and  Marcelline  quite 
ready.  Au  revoir,  my  darling." 

Thus  he  goes ;  and,  after  a  few  minutes,  Dolores,  making 
up  her  mind  to  obedience,  summons  Marcelline,  and  when 
Guy  returns  he  finds  them  both  prepared  for  the  drive. 

"Are  you  still  as  fond  of  bon-bons?"  he  says,  gayly, 
and  orders  the  coachman  to  drive  to  a  confectioner's  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 

Then  he  takes  her  to  the  jeweler's,  and  buys  her  a  half- 
hoop  of  diamonds ;  and  as  she  takes  her  glove  off  to  try 
if  it  fits  her,  she  remembers  with  a  blush  that  Philip's 
ring  is  still  there.  She  fears  Guy  will  be  vexed  j  but  he 
says,  very  kindly, — 

"  We  must  put  that  on  the  other  hand."  Then  he  buys 
her  a  basketful  of  choice  flowers,  and  an  inlaid  box  of 
gloves.  "We  must  not  forget  Marcelline,"  he  says  ;  and 
they  stop  and  purchase  a  beautiful  lace  cap,  to  her  over- 
whelming delight.  "  Now  come  and  help  me  to  choose 
a  present  for  my  sister-in-law,"  says  Sir  Guy.  "I  don't 
know  what  to  give  her — she  has  everything." 

"These  are  beautiful  fans!"  says  Dolores,  timidly 
pointing  to  a  window  they  were  passing. 

"  The  very  thing !  What  a  clever  little  woman  !  Ladies 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  HAPPINESS f  367 

can  never  have  too  many  of  those."  And,  going  in,  he 
selects  a  film  of  lace  on  carved  mother-of-pearl  sticks — 
a  dainty  toy,  just  fit,  he  thinks,  for  so  elegant  a  creature 
as  Milly. 

After  this  he  takes  them  to  the  Palais  Royal,  and  gives 
them  a  sumptuous  lunch,  and  insists  on  Marcelline  par- 
taking of  everything,  although  she  is  painfully  shy  at  eating 
with  her  young  lady  and  the  English  milord.  Guy  sees 
her  diffidence,  and  good-naturedly  makes  her  sit  at  an 
adjoining  table,  where  she  soon  gets  the  better  of  her  mau- 
vaise  honte. 

In  the  afternoon  they  drive  in  the  Bois.  Dolores  is 
quite  happy.  She  has  forgotten  her  doubts  about  Guy — 
forgotten,  too,  that  there  is  a  man  who  has  been  kinder  to 
her  than  ever  Guy  has,  fleeing  away  from  sight  and  hear- 
ing of  her  as  fast  as  steam  can  take  him,  but  carrying  with 
him,  as  he  will  for  many  a  long  day,  bitter  memory  and 
regret  of  her. 

Guy,  too,  has  forgotten  him.  He  is  well  pleased  that 
the  charming  little  figure  beside  him  is  to  be  his  own  prop- 
erty. What  a  sweet  little  "my  lady"  she  will  make  !  He 
is  agreeably  conscious,  too,  that  she  attracts  a  good  deal 
of  attention  from  both  sexes,  although  her  toilette  is  of 
the  very  simplest.  It  pleases  him  to  think  how  he  will 
make  Milly  take  her  to  all  the  best  places  and  have  her 
equipped  as  sumptuously  as  a  little  duchess ;  and  then, 
remembering  that  this  will  not  accord  with  his  sister-in- 
law's  plans,  he  frowns  a  vexed  frown. 

"Why  can't  one  be  happy  one's  own  way?  What  a 
cursed  nuisance  society  is!"  he  groans  to  himself.  But, 
after  all,  the  impediments  in  the  way  make  him  prize  his 
little  fiancee  more. 

The  happy  day  is  over.  Dolores  is  back  in  her  room  at 
the  hotel,  and  Guy  is  taking  leave  of  her. 


268  DOLORES. 

"T  wish  you  would  stay  with  me,"  she  says,  wistfully. 
"  In  two  hours  Mary  will  be  here,  and,  oh,  what  shall  I 
say  to  her?" 

' '  Say  ?' '  replies  Guy,  cheerily — "  say  ?  Why,  say ' ' 

But  here  he  pauses,  not  finding  it  altogether  easy  to  make 
a  suggestion. 

The  girl  looks  inquiringly  at  him.  Guy  clasps  his 
hands  round  the  handle  of  his  umbrella,  from  which  he 
is  as  loth  to  part  as  most  men,  and  looks  hard  at  it,  as 
if  some  happy  inspiration  might  come  from  contemplation 
of  it. 

"It  is  awkward,"  he  confesses,  presently,  rather 
gloomily. 

"Don't  you  think,"  says  Dolores,  laying  a  timid  hand 
on  his  arm — "don't  you  think  you  might  tell  her?" 

"  I !  "  (rising  hurriedly,) — "  I,  my  dear  little  girl ! — 
impossible  !" 

His  mind  conjures  up  a  she-dragon.  Captain  Ether- 
ege's  sister  will  probably  be  a  hard,  angular  old  maid, 
who  would  take  a  pleasure  in  saying  things  very  unpleas- 
ant for  him  to  hear,  and  rather  difficult  to  reply  to.  But, 
such  being  the  case,  is  it  fair  to  leave  Dolores  to  her  ten- 
der mercies  ? 

"Tell  me,"  he  asks,  hesitatingly — "is  she  very  severe 
and  awful,  this  Miss  Etherege?"  And  his  face  uncon- 
sciously elongates,  until  Dolores  cannot  help  smiling. 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  she  answers;  "how  could  you  think 
so  ?  She  is  so  good — so  good ;  I  am  quite  sure  she  never 
said  an  angry  word  to  any  one  in  her  life.  That  makes  it 
worse — she  will  be  so  grieved.  But  I  shall  tell  her  he  was 
not  very  unhappy.  He  was  not — was  he?"  she  asks, 
looking  anxiously  at  Guy,  "or  he  would  not  have  given 
me  up  so  easily." 

"  People  have  such  different  ways  of  showing  their  feel- 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  HAPPINESS t  269 

ings,"  he  answers,  with  a  slight  shrug.  "I  don't  think, 
under  the  circumstances,  /should " 

But  here  he  pauses,  and  the  color  deepens  in  the  girl's 
cheek. 

"Well,  dearest,"  he  concludes,  hastily,  "I  must  run 
away  now;  and  you  will  write  me  a  little  line  to-night, 
and  tell  me  how  the  interview  went  off,  and  whether  my 
sister  may  call  in  the  morning  and  see  Miss  Etherege. 
Of  course,"  he  adds,  with  some  warmth,  "if  she  gets 
angry,  and  makes  a  scene,  we  must  take  you  away  at  once. 
I  won't  have  my  little  pet  bullied." 

"Ah,"  she  says,  sighing,  "  there  is  no  fear  of  that." 

"Well,  good-by,  my  darling.  I  am  glad  you  say  you 
have  had  a  pleasant  day ;  we  will  have  many  much  pleas- 
anter  ones,  please  God,  when  we  get  through  all  these 
confounded  proprieties." 

She  lays  her  hand  lingeringly  on  his  sleeve,  her  eyes 
hang  upon  his  face  wistfully.  A  less  vain  man  than  Guy 
might  have  been  pardoned  for  saying  in  his  heart,  "  How 
she  loves  me  !"  The  thought  comes  suddenly  and  griev- 
ously across  him,  "Oh  to  be  loved  like  that  by  the  right 
woman  !"  And  then,  smitten  with  self-reproach  for  the 
involuntary  infidelity,  he  stoops  and  kisses  her  very  ten- 
derly. An  intuitive  perception  seems  to  come  across  her, 
for,  fond  though  the  caress  is,  a  pang  of  disappointment 
shoots  through  her  heart. 

"  Good-by,"  she  says ;  and  there  are  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Good-by,  my  darling;  do  not  forget  to  write  to  me 
to-night.  All  will  be  well  soon."  And,  with  a  cheery 
smile  and  nod,  he  is  gone. 


270  DOLORES. 

CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

GUY  AND   ADRIAN. 

IT  is  all  over — the  story  is  told — with  hesitations,  with 
tears,  with  pitiful  little  excuses ;  and  it  is  heard  patiently 
and  painfully  by  the  compassionate  sister.  She  does  not 
blame  the  child,  whose  story  she  knows,  and  in  her  heart 
of  hearts  she  had  never  thought  the  marriage  quite  a  suit- 
able one ;  but  even  she,  who  has  so  firm  a  faith  in  an  all- 
wise  Providence,  cannot  but  wonder  why  all  these  cruel 
blows  should  be  dealt  on  Philip,  who  never  in  his  life, 
to  her  knowledge,  had  caused  suffering  to  any  human 
being. 

"But,  oh,  Mary,"  pleads  the  girl,  wistfully,  "do  you 
know,  I  cannot  think,  after  all,  he  is  very  sorry  to  give 
me  up,  or  he  would  not  have  done  it  so  easily  and  gone 
away?  He  did  not  seem  very  sorry." 

Mary  is  silent.  Full  well  she  guesses  how  keen  the 
pain  had  been  that  concealed  itself  behind  the  cold,  self- 
contained  manner  that  Dolores  could  not  comprehend. 

"Tell  me,"  she  says,  after  a  slight  pause,  "what  are 
your  plans  for  the  future  ?  Are  you  going  to  be  married 
at  once?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  Dolores  answers,  reddening.  "Sir 
Guy  thinks — his  sister  thinks " 

"His  sister?"  Mary  says,  interrogatively. 

"  Not  his  own  sister — he  has  none — his  brother's  wife." 

"Is  she  in  Paris?" 

"Yes;  and  she  would  like,"  Dolores  says,  hesitatingly 
—"would  like  to  see  you  and  talk  to  you  about — oh, 


GUY  AND  ADRIAN.  2"Jl 

Mary,  would  you  mind  very  much?"  she  adds,  plead- 
ingly. 

Mary  Etherege  is  silent.  She  is  a  good  woman  in  the 
real  sense  of  the  word — kind,  tender-hearted,  charitable; 
but  it  is  asking  a  good  deal  to  expect  her  to  enter  into 
arrangements  for  the  marriage  of  the  girl  so  lately  be- 
trothed to  her  brother,  with  another  man. 

"  I  know  it  seems  a  strange,  unnatural  thing  to  ask 
you,"  Dolores  pleads,  humbly;  "but  oh,  Mary,  I  do  so 
dread  to  meet  Mrs.  Charteris." 

"  You  have  not  seen  her  yet,  then  ?" 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  her — that  day  in  the  Louvre.  She 
was  very  kind ;  but — but,  I  do  not  know  why,  somehow 
I  feel  afraid  of  her.  If  only  you  would  see  her  first, 
Mary !"  And  Dolores  takes  her  friend's  hand  and  kisses 
>'t,  in  her  pretty,  impulsive  way. 

Many  thoughts  crowd  into  Mary's  mind  ;  but  with  her 
duty,  once  she  recognizes  it,  always  takes  the  pre-emi- 
nence. And  here,  she  tells  herself,  is  this  child,  mother- 
less, friendless,  placed  in  so  strange  a  position,  without 
any  one  to  advise  her ;  and  must  she  not  banish  her  own 
private  feelings,  and  do  what  she  can  to  secure  her  hap- 
piness in  the  future  ?  She  knows  nothing  of  Sir  Guy — 
in  her  secret  heart  she  does  not'  think  well  of  him,  and  it 
occurs  to  her  that  the  relations  of  a  man  in  his  position 
can  hardly  look  with  much  favor  on  his  marriage  with  a 
girl  whose  antecedents  are  unknown  even  to  herself. 
And  she  thinks  sadly  how  the  girl  is  plunging  with  such 
happy  confidence  into  the  open  sea,  all  unaware  of  the 
reefs  and  shoals  lying  thick  under  the  fair  water.  She 
sighs — this  time  it  is  for  the  girl's  sake. 

"  Mary,"  whispers  Dolores,  still  caressing  the  hand  she 
holds. 

"Yes,  I  will  see  her,"  answers  Miss  Etherege,  sadly 


272  DOLORES. 

"  Oh,  thanks,  dear,  dear  Mary !"  cries  the  child,  fling- 
ing her  arms  round  her  friend's  neck;  "then  I  may  write 
and  tell  him?" 

How  selfish  the  young  are  !  Mary  Etherege  might 
have  made  this  reflection,  but  she  does  not.  In  her  kind 
heart  there  is  always  an  ample  fund  of  allowance  for 
human  weaknesses,  and  for  those  of  the  young  especially. 
"  There  is  so  much  suffering  and  disappointment  in  the 
very  happiest,  brightest  lot,"  she  is  wont  to  say ;  "  and  we 
make  so  much  more  sorrow  than  need  be  for  each  other 
by  want  of  sympathy  and  kindness." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  you  may  write ;  and  now,  as  I  am  very 
tired,  I  will  say  good-night." 

"Good-night,  dear,  kind  Mary.  Oh,  how  good  you 
are  to  me  !  and,"  she  adds,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  con- 
trition, "I  have  been  so  ungrateful." 

"  At  least,  you  did  not  mean  it,"  Mary  answers,  kindly, 
kissing  her. 

Dolores  sits  down  to  pen  her  note  to  Guy.  She  is  too 
shy  to  write  the  name  without  its  prefix,  though  she  feels 
it  looks  stiff  and  cold.  It  takes  her  a  long  time  and  a 
good  deal  of  paper  to  write  her  little  effusion,  and  after 
all  it  is  a  somewhat  shy,  awkward  production.  Then  she 
is  perplexed  how  to  direct  the  envelope,  and  has  half  a 
mind  to  go  to  Mary  Etherege  for  instruction,  but  ulti- 
mately decides  not  to  disturb  her,  though  with  secret  mis- 
givings. 

Guy  smiles  as  he  reads  the  note. 

"Dear  little  girl,"  he  thinks,  "I  must  get  Milly  to 
give  her  a  lesson  in  writing  charming  little  notes." 

Unconsciously  almost,  but  with  the  tact  that  character- 
izes mankind,  he  is  always  saying  to  himself,  "  Milly  must 
tell  her  this;  Milly  must  show  her  that."  A  woman  is 
always  so  pleased  and  ready  to  take  hints  from  another 


GUY  AND  ADRIAN. 


273 


woman  she  suspects  of  occupying  a  prominent  position 
in  her  lover's  heart ! 

Milly  is  not  pleased  with  the  task  that  awaits  her  on  the 
morrow.  Nevertheless,  she  has  given  her  word,  and  will 
not  go  back  from  it.  She  knows  Guy  is  throwing  himself 
away  hopelessly ;  he  does  not  care  for  the  girl — not  really 
care  for  her.  To-night  Guy  has  dined  tete-d-tete  with  her, 
and  taken  her  to  the  theatre,  for  Adrian  is  again  dining 
with  his  friend  Vansittart — they  are  to  have  a  little  ecartl 
afterwards.  He  has  not  been  the  least  distrait,  does  not 
appear  much  inclined  to  speak  of  his  love  or  future,  and 
indeed  has  only  seemed  to  have  one  care — how  to  please 
and  amuse  her,  and  distract  her  from  thinking  of  Adrian's 
absence. 

In  coming  out  of  the  door  of  the  theatre  a  man  had 
pushed  against  her,  and  Guy,  ordinarily  so  quiet,  had 
seized  him  by  the  collar  and  swung  him  into  the  street 
with  a  fury  quite  disproportionate  to  the  offense.  Some- 
times when  she  spoke  to  him  he  would  turn  to  her  with 
eyes  so  expressive  of  his  feelings  that  she  would  look  away 
sharply,  half  vexed,  half  embarrassed. 

"  How  that  man  loves  me  !"  she  could  not  help  saying 
to  herself,  quite  dispassionately  and  sorrowfully.  "  Why 
did  I  not  care  for  him  instead  of  Adrian  ?"  And  yet  she 
would  not,  dared  not  admit  to  herself  that  Adrian  did 
not  love  her  too — it  would  have  broken  her  heart. 

There  were  a  few  warm  words  spoken  between  the 
brothers  that  night.  Milly  had  gone  to  bed,  and  Guy 
was  in  the  sitting-room  alone  when  Adrian  came  in.  He 
flung  himself  in  a  chair,  lighted  another  cigar,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  discuss  the  events  of  the  evening. 

"Just  like  my  infernal  luck!"  he  said,  nonchalantly. 
"  I  dropped  thirty  pounds.  Just  the  sum  I  promised 
Milly  for  her  dressmaker,  or  milliner,  or  some  con- 
3 


*74  DOLORES. 

founded  bill,  to-morrow.  How  cursed  extravagant  women 
are!" 

Guy  began  to  get  a  little  angry. 

"I  fancy  there  is  more  satisfaction  to  be  got  out  of 
paying  thirty  pounds  for  a  dress  for  an  elegant  woman 
than  flinging  it  away  for  half  an  hour's  excitement." 

" C 'est selon /"  answered  Adrian,  with  a  shrug.  "When 
you've  been  married  a  few  months  you  won't  have  tht 
remotest  idea  of  how  your  wife  dresses,  until  you  have  to 
pay  the  bills." 

"My  good  fellow,"  said  Guy,  with  some  heat,  "it's 
all  very  well  for  you  to  waive  the  fact  so  delicately,  but 
I  think  you  might  remember,  when  you  talk  so  largely 
about  your  wife's  bills,  that  it's  her  own  money  you 
condescend  to  pay  them  with." 

"Oh,  no,  it  isn't,"  answered  Adrian,  lazily;  "it's 
mine  now.  She  laid  it  out  on  my  purchase ;  and,  upon 
my  soul,  I  think  she  has  the  best  of  the  bargain  !" 

"  I  dare  say  you  do,"  retorted  Guy,  grimly.  "I  sup- 
pose you  have  something  to  recommend  you — women 
seem  to  think  so,  at  least;  but,  by  God,"  he  adds,  pas- 
sionately, "it  is  not  your  manliness  or  delicacy  of 
feeling,  or  you  would  treat  such  a  woman  as  you  have 
the  honor  to  possess  a  little  differently  from  the  way  you 
do." 

"Ah,  yes,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  Adrian,  languidly. 
"  I  know  you're  in  love  with  my  wife — any  child  can  see 
that — but  it's  quite  lost  on  her.  I  wish  she  had  liked  you 
better  than  me.  I  hate  being  married;  but  somehow," 
he  adds,  getting  up  and  looking  at  himself  in  the  glass 
first,  and  then  at  Guy — "I  don't  know  how  the  deuce  it 
is — women  always  did  like  me  better  than  you,  in  spite 
of  your  title  and  your  money." 

To  which  Guy  answered  by  a  savage  anathema ;  but  all 


GUY  AND  ADRIAN. 


*7S 


the  same,  before  they  parted  for  the  night,  he  had  given 
his  brother  a  check  for  thirty  pounds,  and  requested  him 
as  a  personal  favor  not  to  mention  his  loss  at  ecarte  to 
Milly.  Adrian  was  quite  happy  to  comply  with  this  wish, 
and  the  next  morning  gave  his  wife  the  money  with  a 
charming  grace,  and  received  in  return  a  loving  kiss,  and 
as  many  thanks  as  though  the  money  had  not  been  her 
own ;  for  Milly  had  a  very  delicate  mind. 

The  meeting  between  Mrs.  Charteris  and  Mary  Ether- 
ege  has  been  convened,  and  Milly  goes  to  it  feeling  any- 
thing but  at  her  ease.  She  expects  to  be  met  with  icy 
coldness;  it  is  quite  probable,  indeed,  that  Miss  Etherege 
will  utterly  decline  to  enter  into  her  plans :  in  any  case, 
the  interview  can  but  be  painful  to  both.  She  summons 
up  all  her  tact  as  she  ascends  the  stairs,  and  is  ushered  by 
a  waiter  into  the  sitting-room.  A  middle-aged  woman  is 
sitting  there  alone ;  as  the  door  opens,  she  rises  and  comes 
forward  with  an  outstretched  hand.  Before  that  kind  face, 
all  Milly's  doubts  vanish;  she  takes  the  proffered  hand 
eagerly,  and  in  a  moment,  through  that  strange  law  of 
sympathy  so  impossible  to  account  for,  the  two  women 
are  friends. 

For  a  long  time  they  remain  together  in  earnest  con- 
versation, and  when  Milly  leaves  the  hotel  she  feels  far 
more  satisfied  with  the  aspect  of  affairs  than  when  she 
entered  it.  Matters  might  have  been  worse — how  many 
men  of  position  and  title  in  these  latter  days  have  made 
degrading  marriages  ! — and  if,  after  all,  there  was  a  mys- 
tery connected  with  Dolores's  birth,  the  letter  written  by 
her  mother  on  the  eve  of  entering  into  another  world  left 
no  doubt  that  she  was  well  born.  Miss  Etherege  had 
spoken  warmly  of  her  amiability  and  sweetness  of  dispo- 
sition, and  pronounced  her  sufficiently  accomplished  not 
to  appear  deficient  in  the  position  she  was  about  to  fill. 


t;6  DOLORES. 

So,  when  she  meets  Guy,  Milly  is  able  to  say  to  him,  with 
an  encouraging  smile, — 

"A  little  patience,  and  all  will  be  well." 

"A  thousand  thanks,  Milly!"  he  answers,  warmly. 
"Well,  was  the  sister  an  awful  dragon?" 

"  Dragon  ? — no.  One  of  the  kindest,  best  women  I 
ever  met.  Under  the  circumstances,  it  seems  quite  won- 
derful to  me  that  she  could  have  behaved  as  she  did.  And 
as  for  Captain  Etherege,  he  has  acted  nobly.  Ah,  Guy, 
you  thought  he  was  making  a  very  small  sacrifice  in  giving 
up  this  girl  to  you;  but  I  know"  she  adds,  very  earnestly, 
"  that  it  has  almost  broken  his  heart." 

"  Men's  hearts  are  pretty  tough,"  answers  Guy,  grimly; 
"  and  they  need  well  be,  to  have  to  deal  with  your  sex." 

"  Guy  !"  she  exclaims,  in  a  startled  voice,  "  that  is  not 
like  you  !  Surely  you  are  not  going  to  take  to  the  fash- 
ionable man's  jargon  of  the  day,  and  speak  ill  of  women?" 
*  "  No,  indeed,  Milly,  I  am  not.  I  was  a  fool  to  say 
what  I  did ;  and  no  one  has  a  greater  contempt  than  I 
have  for  men  who  make  it  their  business  to  go  about 
abusing  women  and  speaking  disrespectfully  of  them.  I 
am  quite  sure  a  man  who  ever  loved  and  has  been  loved 
by  a  good  woman  would  never  say  anything  but  what  was 
kind  and  generous  of  them.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the 
men  who  abuse  women  could  not  get  the  woman  they 
wanted,  and  consider  themselves  ill  treated  because  she 
thought  some  one  else  worthier  to  be  preferred  to  him. 
No  ;  please  God,  I  hope  I  shall  never  get  into  that  hateful, 
unmanly  habit ;  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
pulling  me  up." 

"  Well,"  she  answers,  smiling,  "  you  will  have  no  cause 
to  be  bitter,  for  you  are  going  to  marry  a  very  pretty  girl, 
who  is  devoted  to  you,  and  of  whom  I  hear  everythi  ng  that 
is  charming." 


GUY  AND  ADRIAN. 


277 


"  Poor  little  girl !"  he  murmurs,  with  a  sigh.  "I  only 
hope  she  won't  be  disappointed  in  me.  I  can't  think  why 
she  should  have  taken  it  into  her  foolish  little  head  to 
think  so  much  about  me ;  only  I  suppose  I  was  almost  the 
first  Englishman  she  ever  saw,  and,  being  English  herself, 
she  naturally  thought  more  of  me.  By  Jove!"  he  ex- 
claims, angrily,  "I  wish  I  could  discover  that  scoundrel 
of  a  father  of  hers,  and  make  him  acknowledge  her !  I 
would  give  five  thousand  pounds  down  this  minute  for  a 
good  clue.  It  must  have  been  true  what  the  mother 
wrote,  must  it  not  ?  She  would  not  have  written  a  lie  on 
the  verge  of  the  grave  ?' ' 

"  Impossible !  and  there  seems  no  doubt  Mrs.  Power 
was  herself  a  lady.  I  have  my  own  theory  on  the  subject. 
I  was  thinking  of  it  all  the  way  home." 

"And  what  is  it?"  asks  Guy,  eagerly. 

"  I  think  Miss  Power's  father  must  have  been  heir  to 
some  high  position,  and  that,  for  some  reason  or  other* 
when  he  married  her  mother  he  was  not  able  to  acknowl- 
edge her  publicly.  Afterwards,  perhaps,  he  tired  of  her, 
or  had  a  chance  of  making  a  good  marriage,  and,  count- 
ing on  her  devotion  to  him,  threw  himself  on  her  mercy 
not  to  divulge  the  marriage." 

"A  pretty  blackguard  he  must  have  been  1"  interrupts 
Guy,  hotly. 

"  Remember,  this  is  pure  surmise  on  my  part." 

"I  can't  believe  any  woman  would  have  consented  to 
such  infamous  treatment,"  continues  Guy.  "And  if  she 
were  the  rightful  wife  of  a  man  in  his  position,  and  could 
prove  it,  is  it  likely  she  would  go  away  and  shut  herself 
up  in  a  place  like  Rouen,  and  live  on  a  miserable  pit- 
tance?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  Milly  says,  thoughtfully.  "  If  a 
woman  loves  a  man  with  all  her  heart,  I  think  there  is 

24 


878  DOLORES. 

very  little  she  will  not  sacrifice  for  him,  if  he  only  knows 
how  to  appeal  to  her.  Perhaps  he  concealed  his  second 
marriage  from  her ;  perhaps,  by  the  time  she  knew  it,  he 
had  other  children — a  son  perhaps ;  but,"  she  adds,  break- 
ing off,  "one  may  conjecture  ten  thousand  things,  and 
none  of  them  be  right ;  only  I  think  one  is  bound  to  be- 
lieve her  letter,  and  that  seems  to  point  towards  my  con- 
clusion." 

"Yes,  I  believe  you  are  not  far  from  the  truth;  but," 
Guy  adds,  impatiently,  "  if  one  could  only  prove  it !" 

"  I  doubt  you  ever  will.  Such  care  seems  to  have  been 
taken  to  hide  every  trace  of  identity.  I  suppose,  too,  she 
must  have  destroyed  her  marriage  certificate,  so  that  even 
if  one  gained  a  clue  to  the  husband,  which  is  very  improb- 
able, it  might  be  impossible  to  prove  the  marriage,  which 
perhaps  took  place  abroad ;  and  don't  you  think,  Guy, 
that  it  is  perhaps  as  well  to  rest  certain  in  our  own  minds 
that  Dolores's  antecedents  were  all  that  we  can  wish, 
than " 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  interrupts  Guy,  impatiently. 
"  Well,  it  seems  as  if  we  must  rest  satisfied  with  what  we 
know,  for  there  appears  little  chance  of  our  ever  learning 
any  more." 


WHAT  DOLORES  DISCOVERS.  279 

CHAPTER   XXIX. 

WHAT   DOLORES   DISCOVERS. 

THEY  have  all  dined  at  the  table-d'hote  of  the  Grand 
Hotel — Sir  Guy,  Captain  and  Mrs.  Charteris,  Dolores,  and 
Miss  Etherege ;  nay,  Milly  has  even  thought  it  expedient 
to  ask  Mr.  Vansittart  to  be  of  the  party,  as  a  future  wit- 
ness, should  one  be  needed.  Dinner  is  over,  Dolores  and 
her  friend  have  been  duly  presented  to  Captain  and  Mrs. 
Charteris,  and  they  are  all  sitting  together  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  hotel,  drinking  their  coffee.  It  is  a  bright 
warm  spring  evening — early  spring,  to  be  sure,  but  still 
spring,  for  it  is  the  middle  of  April,  and  the  last  few  days 
have  been  as  hot  as  June.  Milly  is  talking  confidentially 
to  Miss  Etherege,  Guy  to  Dolores ;  while  Adrian  and  Mr. 
Vansittart  are  engaged  in  a  discussion  on  dinners.  This 
does  not  hinder  either  of  them  from  casting  occasional 
glances  at  Dolores — Adrian  from  admiration,  strongly 
impregnated  with  curiosity;  his  friend  from  unmixed 
admiration. 

"  What  an  awfully  pretty  little  girl !"  he  whispers.  "  I 
don't  know  when  I've  seen  such  a  lovely  little  face;  and 
yet  she  seems  to  remind  me  of  somebody.  Who  is  she?" 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  as  much  in  the  dark  as  your- 
self," returns  Adrian.  "An  old  acquaintance  of  Guy's, 
evidently.  I  think  he's  in  luck." 

"  I  think  so  too ;  and,  but  that  appearances  are  deceit- 
ful, I  should  say  the  little  beauty  is  decidedly  epris  with 
Master  Guy.  I  wonder  whether  I  could  make  any  impres- 
sion on  the  old  woman,  mother,  aunt,  duenna,  or  what- 


a8o  DOLORES. 

ever  she  may  be.     She  looks  like  a  lady,  though  she  isn't 
handsome." 

"Bet  you  five  pounds  to  two  she  snubs  you!"  whispers 
Adrian,  laughing.  "I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Van,  but 
dowagers  seem  to  have  a  natural  mistrust  of  you." 

"Not  till  they  find  out  that  I  have  no  money,"  he  re 
torts,  with  a  shrug;  "and  indeed,  as  you  know,  my  deai 
fellow,  my  only  vice — in  fact,  the  only  vice  a  man  ca& 
have  in  a  woman's  eyes — is  poverty.  But  I  take  your  bet 
all  the  same."  And,  waiting  for  a  convenient  opportu- 
nity, Mr.  Vansittart  delicately  introduces  himself  into  the 
conversation  that  Milly  and  Miss  Etherege  are  engaged 
in.  But  from  that  moment  Mary  drops  quietly  out  of  it, 
although  Jack  Vansittart  appeals  frequently  to  her,  and 
only  answers  by  monosyllables  to  his  polite  questions  and 
remarks. 

Meanwhile  Captain  Charteris  has  joined  his  brother  and 
Dolores.  At  first,  when  Adrian  speaks  to  her,  she  blushes 
and  trembles,  but  there  is  no  man  living  who  has  more 
tact  when  he  chooses,  or  possesses  the  art  of  pleasing  more 
perfectly,  than  Captain  Charteris.  So  in  a  very  short 
time  she  is  quite  at  home  with  him,  and  feels  sure,  in  her 
own  mind,  that  he  does  not  remember  her.  Guy  sits  for 
a  few  moments,  watching  the  two,  thinking,  a  little  bit- 
terly, "  I  suppose  he  wants  to  cut  me  out  there  too.  Well, 
he  is  a  good-looking  fellow — there  can  be  no  two  opinions 
about  that ;  but  I  think  women  must  be  a  little  shallow, 
to  be  won  over  so  easily  by  a  handsome  face  and  a  pleasant 
manner." 

Dolores  is  looking  quite  bright  and  pleased,  and  Guy 
turns  somewhat  abruptly,  and  joins  Jack  Vansittart,  who 
is  languishing  out  of  the  conversation  with  the  two  other 
ladies,  and  casting  somewhat  envious  glances  at  Adrian. 

"That's  a  sweet  pretty  little  creature,  your  friend  !"  he 


WHAT  DOLORES  DISCOVERS.  28i 

whispers,  as  Guy  drops  into  the  chair  next  to  him.  "  I 
say,  Guy,  what  a  deuced  good-looking  fellow  that  brother 
of  yours  is  ! — and  how  all  the  women  seem  to  take  to  him 
at  once  !  What  beats  me  is,  that  he  seems  to  treat  it  all 
as  coolly  as  possible,  as  if  it  were  his  due.  I  don't  believe 
he  was  ever  in  love  in  his  life." 

"  Hush  !"  says  Guy,  softly,  looking  towards  Milly. 

"  Oh,  of  course  no  man  ever  is  in  love  with  his  wife; 
but  if  he  isn't,  she  has  had  plenty  who  were." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  in  love  with  mine,"  answers  Guy,  a 
little  stiffly,  not  noticing  the  latter  part  of  the  sentence. 

"I  should  think  you're  too  good  a  judge  to  get  mar- 
ried, my  boy — at  least,  for  ten  years.  Not  but  what  that 
little  fairy  opposite  would  make  a  very  lovely  Lady  Went- 
worth.  Who  is  she,  by  the  way  ?' ' 

Guy  has  known  Jack  Vansittart  too  long  to  be  offended 
by  his  familiarity,  but  it  does  not  please  him  just  at  pres- 
ent. So  he  answers,  huffily,  and  not  very  judiciously, — 

"  If  you  want  her  whole  family  history,  I  am  afraid  I 
cannot  give  it  you  ;  but  her  name  is  Power,  and" — "  I  am 
going  to  marry  her,  at  your  service  !"  he  is  about  to  add. 
when  he  recollects  himself,  and  stops,  coloring  a  little. 

"Don't  be  angry,  my  dear  boy.  You  know  I  always 
#as  a  deuced  inquisitive  fellow ;  but  her  face  puzzles  me 
— I  am  sure  I've  seen  it  before." 

"In  a  picture,  perhaps?"  suggests  Gny.  "Does  she 
remind  you  of  '  La  Cruche  Cassee'  ?' ' 

"  That's  it — that's  it !"  cries  Jack,  triumphantly;  "now 
I've  got  it.  I  hate  to  be  puzzled  about  anything;  but," 
he  continues,  energetically,  "  this  one  will  give  the  picture 
stones  and  beat  her.  Well,  but  where  does  she  live? — 
tell  me  all  about  her.  'Pon  my  life,  Guy,  this  is  not 
curiosity;  I'm  tremendously  interested.  Tried  to  make 
up  to  the  old  lady  just  now,  but  she  wouldn't  have  it  at 

24  » 


a82  DOLORES. 

any  price,  confound  her !  so  I  have  lost  two  sovereigns  to 
Adrian.  He  said  she  wouldn't ;  but  how  the  deuce  could 
she  know  I  hadn't  any  money?" — For  Jack  will  never 
depart  from  his  theory  that  nothing  but  poverty  can  ever 
cause  him  to  meet  with  a  rebuff  from  a  woman. — "  I 
suppose  she's  the  mamma?" 

"No,"  Guy  answers — "no  relation.  Miss  Power's 
mother  died  in  Rouen  last  year,  and  she  has  lived  with 
Miss  Etherege  ever  since." 

"  Rouen  !"  cries  Jack,  pricking  up  his  ears — "  Rouen  ! 
Now,  what  the  deuce  have  I  heard  about  you  in  con- 
nection with  Rouen?  Did  Miss  Power  live  there?" 

"Yes,"  he  answers,  crimsoning  with  anger ;  "but " 

"Ah,  yes,  I  know"  (interrupting  him) — "I  remember, 
Master  Guy.  A  pretty  story  I  heard  about  you  and  Rouen 
last  season  ! — but  this  little  lady  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  so  you  needn't  look  so  furious.  No,  no,  quite  another 
affair,"  he  continues,  chuckling  to  himself;  "some  little 
Normandy  peasant — ha  !  ha  !" 

Happily  for  Guy,  at  this  juncture  the  waiter  comes 
with  the  bill,  and  the  conversation,  which  had  been  fast 
becoming  unbearable,  receives  a  check.  But  presently 
Jack  returns  to  it,  though,  happily,  not  at  the  point  where 
he  left  it. 

"  Did  I  hear  the  name  of  Etherege?"  he  asks. 

"Yes;  that  lady  is  Miss  Etherege." 

"Any  relation  to  Etherege  who  was  in  the  — th?" 

"Sister,  I  believe?" 

"Ah!  my  eldest  brother  was  in  the  same  regiment; 
they  were  great  chums.  Capital  good  fellow  Etherege 
was,  until  that  infernal  woman  sent  him  to  the  deuce. 
Why  do  all  the  good  fellows  get  sent  to  the  deuce  by 
women,  I  wonder?  I  was,  I  know,"  he  adds,  naively. 
"By  the  way,  I  saw  her  at  Monaco  last  winter;  she 


WHAT  DOLORES  DISCOVERS.  283 

seemed  rather  by  way  of  being  prosperous.  I  should  like 
to  know  what  has  become  of  him,  poor  old  chap !" 

"Hush,"  says  Guy,  uneasily;  "she  will  hear  you." 
And,  fortunately,  at  this  moment  Milly  rises,  and  thinks 
it  is  time  to  be  going. 

"  What  shall  we  do?"  she  says.  " It  is  not  nine  yet. 
I  think,  as  it  is  so  fine  and  warm,  a  drive  along  the  Boule- 
vards would  be  very  pleasant,  if,"  she  adds,  reflectively, 
"  we  could  only  get  a  decent  carriage." 

"  I  ordered  one  to  be  here  at  nine,"  Guy  answers ;  "  it 
wants  five  minutes  to  it  now,"  looking  at  his  watch. 

"You  will  come  too,  I  hope?"  Milly  says,  turning  to 
Miss  Etherege — "You  and  Miss  Power." 

"Thank  you,  I  think  not,"  Mary  answers,  but  seeing 
Dolores's  face  fall,  adds,  "but  perhaps  you  will  let  Do- 
lores accompany  you? — I  see  she  would  like  it." 

"  By  all  means,  and  we  will  drop  you  first  at  your  hotel. 
Adrian,  shall  we  pick  you  up  afterwards  ?' '  she  asks,  rather 
ignoring  Vansittart,  whom  she  does  not  particularly  like. 

"Oh,  no;  Van  and  I  will  get  a  fiacre  and  smoke  a 
cheerful  weed.  Guy,  I  know,  will  sacrifice  anything  for 
the  sake  of  ladies."  And,  with  rather  a  mocking  smile, 
he  puts  them  into  the  carriage  which  has  just  driven  up, 
and,  bending  forward  to  Dolores  with  his  most  charming 
manner,  hopes  they  will  meet  again  very  shortly. 

It  is  quite  right  of  him  to  say  this,  of  course ;  but  Milly 
cannot  help  feeling  a  twinge  of  jealousy — already  she 
hardly  likes  the  idea  that  this  girl  is  to  be  an  inmate  of 
her  house ;  but  she  tries  hard  to  check  the  inhospitable 
thought.  Later  on,  when  Dolores  too  has  been  taken 
home,  she  and  Guy  compare  notes  about  the  evening,  and 
agree  that  it  has  been  a  perfect  success. 

"  Although  that  fellow  Vansittart  kept  me  on  tenter- 
hooks half  the  time  with  his  blundering  questions,"  Guy 


284  DOLORES. 

says.  "  I  was  on  the  point  of  letting  out  the  whole  thing. 
You  see,  Milly"  (apologetically),  "  I'm  a  stupid  straight- 
forward sort  of  fellow,  and  I'm  not  very  good  at — at — " 

"Deception,"  she  adds,  laughing,  "and  I,  being  a 
woman,  of  course  am.  Is  that  it,  Guy?" 

"Oh,  Milly"  (reproachfully),  "you  know  I  do  not 
think  so;  and  besides,"  tenderly,  "is  it  not  all  for  my 
sake?" 

"  Well,  I  am  very  glad  that  horrid  Mr.  Vansittart  came, 
because  he  is  a  regular  gossip,  and  will  spread  the  whole 
story  of  the  meeting  over  London  this  season,  which  will 
save  us  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  And  to-night,  you  know, 
Guy,  you  must  speak  to  Stevens." 

"Yes,  I  know"  (wearily).  "  Oh,  how  glad  I  shall  be 
when  all  this  is  over !  Good-night,  Milly ;  thank  you  a 
thousand  times,  and"  (anxiously),  "I  hope  you  have  not 
tired  yourself." 

"Stevens,"  he  says,  later  in  the  evening — "Stevens" 
(Very  abruptly). 
Yes,  Sir  Guy." 

"You — you  remember  Miss  Power — at  Rouen,  you 
know. ' ' 

"Yes,  Sir  Guy"  (imperturbably). 

"You  will  probably  see  her  to-morrow — with  Mrs. 
Charteris"  (pausing). 

"Yes,  Sir  Guy." 

"And — and — Stevens  !"  (turning  suddenly  upon  him), 
"  I  think  you  are  a  good  fellow,  and  wish  to  serve  me." 

"Yes,  indeed,  Sir  Guy." 

"  Then  you  will  not  give  one  word  or  hint — or  hint, 
mind — of  ever  having  seen  her  before,  except  by  chance 
meeting  her  one  day  in  the  streets  of  Rouen  1" 

"  Certainly  not,  Sir  Guy." 

"Thank  you." 


WHAT  DOLORES  DISCOVERS.  285 

"This,"  reflected  Mr.  Stevens  to  himself  when  alone — 
"this  is  a  rum  start.  What  does  it  mean?  Is  he  going 
to  marry  her?  Well,  we  shall  see.  He's  a  good  fellow, 
anyhow,  is  Sir  Guy,  and  behaved  like  one  gentleman  to 
another.  Many  masters  would  have  said,  '  Look  here, 
Stevens,  if  you  don't  split,  I'll  give  you  this,  that,  or  the 
other;  if  you  do,  I'll  send  you  to  the  devil ;'  but  no,  he's 
a  real  gentleman,  so  he  don't  try  bribery  and  corruption, 
but  appeals  to  my  honor.  And  blank  me,"  adds  Mr. 
Stevens,  vigorously,  "  if  I  don't  justify  his  good  opinion. 
He'll  make  it  up  to  me  some  day,  I  know,  and  if  I  make 
up  my  mind  to  go  to  my  brother  in  America — as  I  shall 
do  if  I  get  another  letter  like  the  last — a  little  present 
won't  come  amiss ;  and  of  course,  if  he's  going  to  marry 
this  gal  after  all,  it'll  reconcile  him  more  to  losin'  me." 

The  next  few  days  Dolores  spent  almost  entirely  in  the 
society  of  Mrs.  Charteris.  Miss  Etherege  was  always 
asked  to  be  of  the  party,  but  Milly  perfectly  understood 
why  she  preferred  to  keep  aloof,  and  never  pressed  her 
invitations.  It  was  settled  that  they  were  to  leave  Paris 
in  a  week,  and  Dolores  was  to  accompany  them.  Milly 
consented  to  the  engagement  between  her  and  Guy  being 
ratified  the  day  previous  to  their  leaving. 

"And  then  I  may  wear  my  ring,"  says  Dolores,  smiling, 
when  Guy  makes  this  announcement.  "I  have  been  so 
afraid  all  this  time  of  keeping  it  in  my  box,  lest  some  one 
should  steal  it ;  it  only  feels  safe  on  my  finger." 

When  the  happy  day  arrives,  and  Guy  is  permitted  to 
treat  her  en  fiancee,  he  gratifies  himself  by  taking  her  out 
and  buying  her  a  host  of  beautiful  things,  until  she  is 
bewildered  by  her  riches,  and  almost  ashamed. 

"Please — please  not  to  buy  me  anything  more,"  she 
cries,  at  last;  "you  know  I  am  not  used  to  all  these 
things.  Marcelline  and  I  shall  be  so  afraid  of  losing  them. 


286  DOLORES. 

And  oh,"  she  adds,  looking  at  him  with  wonder,  "how 
rich  you  must  be  !" 

He  smiles  at  her  naivett. 

"One  thing  is  certain,"  he  says  to  himself,  "it  is  not 
for  my  money  that  she  loves  me,  that  is  one  consolation. ' ' 
And  in  the  frugal  life  that  the  child  has  always  led,  never 
being  tempted  to  envy  by  seeing  the  riches  of  others,  and 
feeling  no  want  of  more  than  she  possessed,  the  thought 
of  Guy's  possible  or  probable  wealth  had  never  for  one 
moment  dawned  across  her  brain.  She  had  never  been  in 
a  large  house,  never  seen  beautifully-dressed  women,  until 
she  came  to  Paris,  never  been  to  theatres  or  gay  sights, 
and  had  not  the  faintest  idea  of  the  value  of  money; 
indeed,  with  her  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year,  and 
so  few  expenses,  she  considered  herself  passing  rich. 
Now  that  she  beheld  so  many  splendors,  and  was  witness 
of  what  seemed  to  her  the  fabulous  sums  that  Guy  ex- 
pended on  her,  she  felt  ill  at  ease ;  the  sacrifice  that  so 
great  and  rich  a  personage  was  making  in  marrying  any 
one  so  poor  and  humble  as  herself  weighed  upon  her. 

Milly,  according  to  Guy's  desire,  had  ordered  quite  a 
trousseau  for  the  girl,  that  it  might  not  be  supposed,  when 
she  was  presented  to  the  world,  that  she  was  poor,  or 
dependent  for  anything  on  his  bounty. 

One  day  when  they  left  a  house  where  Milly  had  been 
ordering  two  or  three  charming  toilettes  for  her  future 
sister-in-law,  Dolores,  blushing  a  great  deal,  stammered, — 

"  Madame,  I  fear  I  must  not  have  any  more  beautiful 
things  ordered,  or  I  shall  not  have  the  money  to  pay  for 
them." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  no  one  dreamed  of  your  paying 
for  them." 

A  still  deeper  flush  suffuses  the  girl's  cheek  as  she  says, 
with  just  a  little  touch  of  pride, — 


WHAT  DOLORES  DISCOVERS.  287 

"  Pardon,  madame,  Sir  Guy  is  very  good,  very  generous, 
but  I  could  not  receive  these  things  from  his  kindness.  I 
have  twelve  hundred  francs.  I  must  keep  some  money  for 
my  journey,  and  I  will  therefore  pray  you  not  to  let  me 
spend  more  money  than  I  can  afford." 

"Very  well,  dear,"  answers  Milly,  kindly;  "it  shall 
be  as  you  wish.  If  you  will  give  me  six  hundred  francs,  I 
shall  be  able  to  pay  your  bills."  And  she  cannot  help 
smiling  to  herself  as  she  thinks  that  six  times  the  sum  would 
not  cover  the  orders  she  has  given  by  Guy's  direction. 
She  is  pleased,  however,  at  this  evidence  of  independence 
on  the  child's  part,  and  tells  Guy  of  it  the  same  evening. 

"Dear  little  soul!"  he  says,  tenderly;  "it  was  very 
good  of  you,  Milly,  to  manage  so  that  she  should  not  sus- 
pect. Fancy  the  little  thing  being  so  proud  !" 

Every  night  they  went  to  some  theatre  or  place  of 
amusement.  Dolores  enjoyed  it  immensely — the  plays, 
at  least.  She  did  not  enjoy  it  when,  sometimes,  looking 
up  suddenly  for  Guy  to  share  her  pleasure  at  some  touch- 
ing scene  or  charming  song,  she  would  find  his  eyes  fixed, 
not  on  the  stage,  nor  on  her,  but  on  Mrs.  Charteris.  She 
could  not  quite  read  the  expression  in  them,  whether  it 
was  love  or  grief,  or  some  other  feeling  she  did  not  com- 
prehend ;  but  whenever  she  saw  it,  a  bitter  feeling  seemed 
to  creep  into  her  heart,  and  she  forgot  to  appeal  for  his 
sympathy  in  her  pleasure. 

One  day  they  were  sitting  together  alone,  when  she  said 
suddenly, — 

"Sir  Guy,  when  did  you  first  meet  Mrs.  Charteris?" 

"Oh,  some  time  last  spring,"  he  answers,  trying  to 
speak  indifferently. 

"Did  you  know  her  first,  or  me?" 

"  Oh,  you,  I  think"  (a  little  confused).     "  Why  ?" 

"And  was  she  going  to  marry  your  brother  then?" 


288  DOLORES. 

"No"  (in  a  vexed  voice).  "But  why  do  you  ask  all 
these  questions?" 

"  They  are  very  simple  ones,"  answers  the  girl,  calmly. 
"  Is  there  any  reason  why  you  should  be  vexed  to  answer 
them?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  Guy  says,  warmly ;  "  but         " 

"  I  have  still  some  more  to  ask.  Did  your  brother  ask 
her  soon  after  he  met  her  to  marry  him  ?' ' 

"Yes,  I  believe  so"  (impatiently). 

"I  wonder,"  continues  Dolores,  reflectively,  looking 
at  him,  and  yet  hardly  seeming  to  see  him — "  I  wonder 
how  she  should  have  preferred  him  to  you?" 

"Is  he  not  fifty  times  handsomer  than  I  am?"  Guy 
answers,  with  some  bitterness.  "  Do  not  all  women  fall 
in  love  with  him  ?  Indeed,  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  you 
are  not  beginning  to  be  fascinated  by  him." 

"I!"  she  exclaims,  with  a  smile  of  superior  wisdom; 
"  oh,  no.  I  understand  him  quite  well." 

"Do  you,  little  wisehead?"  (smiling.)     "I  doubt  it." 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  am  not  clever — rather  foolish,  perhaps, 
as  you  think  me,  but  I  can  see  quite  well  that  Captain 
Charteris  loves  no  one  but  himself.  He  is  handsome — 
oh"  (impressively),  "very,  very  handsome ;  but  since  he 
knows  it  and  admires  it  himself,  and  only  makes  it  the 
means  to  get  all  he  wants,  /should  not  love  him  for  that. 
And  look  at  his  wife,  how  she  adores  him  !" 

Guy  gives  a  little  impatient  shrug. 

"Yes,  I  know  it  pains  you  to  hear  it,  but  she  does. 
Ah,  I  would  have  taken  you  had  I  been  her !" 

"  Dolores  !"  (with  some  anger),  "  what  makes  you  talk 
in  this  way?  It  is  not  right.  You  are  far  too  young  to 
speak  or  think  of  such  things.  And  how  do  you  know 
for  one  moment  that  I  ever  had  any  thought  of  love  for 
my  sister-in-law?" 


THE   CLIFFS   OF  ALBION.  289 

"How  do  I  know?"  Dolores  says,  contemptuously. 
"  Oh,  of  course  I  am  so  young  that  I  must  be  blind,  and 
have  no  reason  either.  Well,  I  will  tell  you  how  I  know. 
You  told  me  yourself  that  when"  (blushing  painfully) — 
"  when  I  came  to  you  in  Paris,  you  would  have  asked  me 
to  marry,  only  there  was  an  obstacle — now  there  is  no 
obstacle — it  was  she.  Do  I  not  know?"  she  continues, 
with  flashing  eyes.  "And  can  I  not  see  now,  every  day, 
that  you  still  love  her?  Do  I  not  see  your  eyes  rest  on 
her  as  they  never  do  on  me  ?  Do  you  not  try  to  read  her 
very  thoughts  ?  And  often  when  I  turn  to  speak  to  you, 
to  ask  you  something,  to  tell  you  of  my  pleasure  at  what 
I  see,  you  are  thinking  of  her,  and  have  forgotten  even 
that  I  am  there." 

Guy  listens,  almost  stupefied.  For  a  moment  he  turns 
to  the  window  to  collect  his  thoughts.  When  he  looks 
round,  Dolores  has  gone. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

THE   CLIFFS   OF   ALBION. 

GUY  does  not  attempt  to  follow  her :  he  still  stands  by 
the  window,  deep  in  thought. 

"Is  it  so?"  he  says  to  himself.  "Am  I  such  a  poor 
hand  at  concealing  my  feelings  that  even  this  child  has 
discovered  them?  What  an  utter  fool  I  am!  Why  did 
I  ever  risk  being  with  her  again  ?  What  is  the  strange 
fascination  she  has  for  me?  God  help  me,  it  is  too 
strong  for  me!"  And  he  buries  his  face  in  his  hands. 
"  She  is  my  brother's  wife  !  She  does  not  care  two  straws 

T  2$ 


290  DOLORES. 

for  me  !  I  am  engaged  to  this  child,  who  really  does  love 
me,  and  yet  night  and  day  I  seem  to  have  no  thought  nor 
eyes  but  for  this  one  woman,  who  can  never  be  mine.  I 
must  and  will  pluck  it  out  of  my  heart ;  but  then  I  must 
get  away  somewhere,  out  of  sight  of  her.  Why  did  she 
not  let  me  go  my  own  way,  and  marry  Dolores  out  of 
hand?  Once  married,  perhaps  I  may  get  cured  of  my 
other  love — please  God,  at  least,  I  may  !"  he  adds,  rever- 
ently. "But  there  must  be  some  change  in  our  plans. 
Dolores  cannot  go  on  staying  with  her.  I  will  go  at  once 
to  my  mother,  when  I  return  to  England,  and  beg  of  her 
to  receive  her  at  Wentworth.  I  think  she  will.  She  is 
very  kind-hearted;  and,  after  a  little,  I  don't  doubt  but 
that  she  will  take  to  her.  And  I  will  marry  her  very, 
very  soon ! — there  is  no  need  to  wait  three  months.  I 
should  be  in  a  mad-house  if  I  had  to  live  all  that  time  in 
the  constant  society  of  the  woman  I  love,  and  the  one 
who  loves  me.  The  woman  I  love  !"  he  thinks,  bitterly. 
"I  seem  to  have  forgotten  that  she  is  my  brother's  wife, 
and  that  it  is  a  sin  and  a  crime  to  love  her ;  but,  some- 
how, it  doesn't  seem  so,  since  she  cares  nothing  for  me  !" 

For  some  days  after  the  scene  with  Dolores  he  studiously 
avoids  Milly,  is  never  in  her  presence  if  he  can  avoid  it, 
only  speaks  to  her  when  she  addresses  him,  and  keeps  his 
eyes  even  from  her,  so  that  Dolores  never  once  surprises 
him  looking  at  her. 

"Have  I  offended  you,  Guy?"  Milly  asks,  softly,  one 
day,  when  they  are  alone  together  for  a  moment. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  could,"  he  answers,  quietly,  rising 
and  going  to  the  window. 

There  is  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  he  comes  back, 
and  stands  in  front  of  her,  looking  long  and  wistfully  in 
her  face. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  says,  in  a  low 


THE   CLIFFS  OF  ALBION.  291 

voice.  "  It  will  make  things  easier,  and  you  are  not 
likely  to  misunderstand  me.  I  know  you  are  as  far  away 
from  me  as  if — as  if  one  of  us  were  dead,  but  all  the  same 
I  have  loved  you  ever  since  the  day  I  first  saw  you  !  This 
sort  of  thing  cannot  go  on — even  if  it  were  not  wrong — 
I  think  it  would  kill  me  in  time.  Yes,  you  smile !  I  look 
strong  and  hale  enough,  don't  I  ?  But  the  stronger  a  man 
is,  the  harder  it  is  to  crush  his  feeling.  And  it  isn't  fair 
to  her — poor  little  girl ! — for  I  am  such  a  poor  dissembler, 
it  seems,  that  she  has  guessed  it." 

"Guy,"  says  Milly,  reaching  out  her  hand  to  him,  "  I 
don't  blame  you  for  liking  me — how  can  any  woman? — 
but"  (sadly)  "  I  can't  help  feeling  that  it  is  only  a  bit  of 
the  perversity  of  human  nature — just  wanting  the  thing 
you  can't  have.  If  I  had  married  you  instead  of  Adrian, 
I  dare  say  you  would  not  think  very  much  of  me  by  now. 
I  don't  believe  I  really  am  a  very  nice  person,  though  I 
have  a  sort  of  way,  somehow,  of  leading  people  to  think  I 
am,  until  they  know  me  better.  Look  at  Adrian"  (with 
a  shade  of  bitterness),  "  he  seemed  fond  of  me  before  he 
married,  but  you  see  he  does  not  think  he  has  much  of  a 
prize  now — does  he?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  might  have  had  happened  had  I 
been  permitted  the  happiness  of  marrying  you.  I  think  I 
should  have  loved  you  better  every  day.  But"  (abruptly) 
"  it  is  not  that  I  have  to  speak  of  now.  Knowing  that  I 
have  this  infatuation,  or  whatever  it  may  be,  I  want  you 
to  help  me  to  conquer  it  as  far  as  I  may.  Let  me  keep 
away  from  you — do  not  be  kind  to  me — do  not  notice  me. 
As  soon  as  I  return  to  England,  I  will  go  straight  to 
Wentworth,  and  ask  my  mother  to  receive  Dolores ;  and 
down  there,  perhaps"  (smiling  wistfully),  "I  shall  forget 
you,  and  fall  desperately  in  love  with  my  future  wife." 

"No  difficult  task,  I  am  sure,"  Milly  answers,  rising, 


292 


DOLORES. 


with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  God  bless  you,  Guy  1  Remem- 
ber, we  all  have  our  crosses  in  life,  and  the  hardest  to  bear 
are  those  that  we  make  for  ourselves.  I  would  not  for  the 
world  cause  that  poor  child  the  pain  of  jealousy,  for  I 
think  there  is  no  harder  pang  to  bear." 

"Ay,"  answers  Guy;  and,  with  one  last  look  at  her, 
he  goes. 

The  day  of  departure  has  arrived,  and  Dolores  takes 
leave  of  Mary  Etherege  with  many  tears  and  embraces. 

"  You  forgive  me,  dear  Mary  ?  Tell  me  once  more  that 
you  forgive  me.  And  you  will  pray  Philip  to  think  kindly 
of  me  too  ?  Indeed,  indeed,  when  I  remember  all  your 
kindness,  both  of  you,  to  me,  it  takes  away  all  my  happi- 
ness in  my  future,  for  I  feel  as  if  my  ingratitude  will  in 
turn  be  punished." 

"  My  dear  child,"  Mary  answers,  very  kindly,  "  do  not 
think  any  more  about  sad  things.  Go  and  be  happy  in 
your  new  life.  I  pray  God  it  may  be  a  very  bright  one ; 
and  I  dare  answer  for  Philip  that  he  feels  no  anger  in  his 
heart  towards  you,  and  would  be  happiest  by  hearing  of 
your  happiness." 

"And  you  will  write  to  me  often,  and  some  day,"  says 
Dolores,  pleadingly,  "  dear  Mary,  you  will  come  and  see 
me  in  my  home  ?  Oh,  how  happy  I  shall  be  when  that 
day  comes!" 

"  Yes,  I  will  write  to  you,  and  perhaps  some  day  I 
may  meet  you  in  London.  At  all  events,  you  shall  know 
where  I  am.  And  now,  my  dear,  it  is  almost  time  to 
start." 

"Mary"  (hurriedly  slipping  the  ring  Philip  had  given 
her  from  her  finger),  "I  feel  I  have  no  right  to  this. 
Will  you — will  you  make  me  happy  by  taking  it  ?  Do, 
dear  Mary!" 

But  Mary  puts  it  gently  back  on  her  finger. 


THE    CLIFFS   OF  ALBION. 


293 


"  You  would  not  wish  to  cause  Philip  more  pain, 
Dolores?" 

And  at  this  instant  Guy  arrives,  and  in  another  minute 
has  carried  the  child  off,  crying,  but  trying  very  hard  to 
smile  through  her  tears. 

"  Are  you  so  sorry  to  leave  France  ?"  Guy  asks,  kindly, 
pressing  her  hand  as  they  drive  along  the  handsome  white 
streets,  and  her  tears  still  flow.  "  And  are  you  afraid  at 
the  thought  of  your  own  country,  that  you  have  never 
seen?  I  dare  say  Marcelline  has  been  frightening  you 
with  dreadful  stories  about  it.  Is  it  not  so?"  he  says  in 
French,  turning  to  Marcelline ;  but  she  utters  a  polite  and 
vigorous  disclaimer. 

But,  in  truth,  the  good  soul  is  not  without  her  mis- 
givings, and  her  horror  of  the  sea-passage  is  so  great  that 
it  requires  as  strong  a  counterbalance  as  her  love  for  Do- 
lores to  induce  her  to  undertake  it. 

This  the  girl  imparts  to  her  lover,  and  he  rejoins,  smiling, 
in  an  undertone, — 

"  I'll  be  bound  she'll  be  horribly  ill,  poor  soul ! — for- 
eigners always  are;  but  we  won't  tell  her  so.  I  am 
rather  anxious  to  know  about  you,  though,  darling ;  for 
if  you  prove  a  good  sailor,  I  mean  to  take  you  to  Norway 
in  my  yacht  for  our  honeymoon." 

She  smiles.  The  tears  are  all  dried  now,  and  she  is 
supremely  happy  at  being  with  him,  and  feeling  that  this 
fine,  noble-looking  man,  as  she  thinks  him,  really  belongs 
to  her,  or  rather  she  to  him.  Other  women  may  think 
Captain  Charteris  handsome,  but  for  her,  she  wonders  how 
any  one  can  prefer  him  to  Sir  Guy,  who  is  infinitely  more 
noble,  more  distinguished-looking. 

She  has  appealed  for  Marcelline's  opinion  on  the  subject, 
and  has  received  it.  M.  le  Capitaine  was  handsome,  even 
very  handsome,  but  he  had  not  that  look  of  real  goodness 

25* 


*94 


DOLORES. 


that  made  the  beauty  of  Sir  Guy's  face.  And  Marcelline's 
judgment  is  perfectly  correct. 

It  is  a  bright  sunny  day ;  the  stir  and  bustle  is  pleasant 
to  Dolores,  and  although  she  has  nothing  to  do,  as  Guy 
and  his  servant  manage  everything,  there  is  a  kind  of 
contagion  about  the  general  activity,  and  S\\Q  feels  rather 
important.  Milly  and  her  husband  arrive  immediately 
after  them ;  fortunately  for  Marcelline,  Mrs.  Charteris's 
maid  is  French,  and  has  traveled  a  good  deal,  so  she  feels 
rather  more  happy  in  her  mind  at  the  thought  of  the 
journey  made  under  such  auspices.  She  has  been  cautioned 
about  what  she  is  and  is  not  to  say,  and,  gossip  though 
she  is,  once  her  child's  interest  is  concerned,  can  be  dis- 
cretion herself. 

Guy  attends  scrupulously  to  the  comforts  of  both  his 
fair  companions,  and  Adrian  as  scrupulously  to  his  own. 
Stevens  is  in  charge  of  a  valuable  hamper,  which  he  hands 
to  his  master  in  the  carriage.  When  opened,  it  contains 
two  choice  little  bouquets,  bottles  of  scent,  fruits,  sweet- 
meats, and  books,  and  a  recherche  lunch,  to  be  consumed 
at  a  more  advanced  period  of  the  journey. 

"  Really,  Guy,  I  think  you  are  the  most  thoughtful  man 
in  the  world  !"  cries  his  sister-in-law.  "  What  a  treasure 
of  a  husband  you  are  going  to  have,  Dolores  !"  And  such 
a  proud,  radiant  look  beams  in  the  girl's  eyes,  it  is  pleasant 
to  behold  the  reflection  of  so  much  bright  young  hope  and 
love. 

"Milly,"  says  Adrian,  lazily,  "I  shall  be  very  happy 
to  bet  you  twelve  to  six  in  gloves  that  he  don't  think  of 
all  these  touching  little  attentions  when  he's  been  married 
six  months." 

"  I  am  very  happy  to  take  your  bet,"  answers  Milly, 
laughing  and  taking  out  her  tablets.  "  Oh,  how  the  car- 
riage shakes !  Write  it  for  me,  Adrian." 


THE    CLIFFS   OF  ALBION. 


295 


" Can't  move,"  he  says,  languidly.  "Guy  will  do  it 
for  you — he  is  such  an  active  fellow.  And  besides" 
(maliciously),  "he  always  does  everything  for  you." 

Guy  takes  the  tablets  gravely  and  writes. 

"There,"  he  says,  smiling,  as  he  hands  them  back; 
"  now,  if  I  fall  off  in  my  good  behavior,  here  will  be  my 
own  testimony  against  me." 

"  Don't  put  any  faith  in  his  promises,  Miss  Power — at 
least,  Dolores.  I  may  call  you  that  now,  may  I  not? 
You  see,  Guy  calls  my  wife  Milly,  though  he  is  looking 
at  me  now  as  if  he  thought  my  proposition  an  infernal 
piece  of  cheek.  Dolores,"  he  added,  caressingly — "It  is 
such  a  soft,  pleasant  name  to  say !  Milly,  I  wish  you  were 
called  Dolores  !" 

"  Do  you  ?"  (rather  dryly.) 

"Well,  I  don't  know"  (reflectively);  "perhaps  it 
would  be  a  bore  for  one's  wife  to  have  such  a  long  name  ; 
it  doesn't  do  to  say  it  too  often.  Fancy  shouting  up- 
stairs, Dolores,  Dolores,  Dolores,  when  she  was  keeping 
you  waiting  !" 

They  all  laugh ;  his  languid  way  of  saying  it  is  irre- 
sistible. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,  Guy,"  he  continues,  without  the 
faintest  smile  on  his  own  face — "the,  worst  of  it  is,  I 
don't  see  how  you  are  to  abbreviate  it.  Dolly — no,  that 
would  be  too  dreadful !  And  there  is  literally  no  other. 
The  only  thing  that  I  can  see  for  it  is,  she  must  never 
keep  you  waiting." 

"  You  see,  Adrian,"  answers  his  brother,  laughing,  "I 
am  not  quite  as  delicate  as  you,  so  the  exertion  would  not 
try  me  so  much.  And  I  think"  (looking  very  kindly  at 
Dolores)  "  it  is  such  a  sweet  name  that  I  shall  not  mind 
how  often  I  have  to  say  it." 

"Now,   Guy,  there's  a  good  fellow — don't  begin  to 


296  DOLORES, 

spoon ;  it  is  too  hot ;  and,  besides,  it  always  makes  other 
people  uncomfortable.  It's  such  a  selfish  thing  !  I  never 
did  in  public— did  I,  Milly?" 

"Never,"  she  answers,  biting  her  lip  and  looking  out 
of  the  window. 

"  But,  apropos  of  the  basket,  I've  been  going  to  remark 
ever  so  many  times — only  one  thing  always  drives  another 
out  of  one's  mind — that's  just  the  way  we  spoil  women. 
Of  course  we're  obliged  to  be  tremendously  civil  and  at- 
tentive and  thoughtful  before  we  get  married ;  and  then, 
afterwards,  they  expect  one  to  go  on  with  it,  which  of 
course,  you  know,  is  a  sheer  impossibility.  Fancy  the 
strain  on  one's  mind  of  always  being  on  the  lookout  to 
anticipate  a  woman's  wants  !  Dolores"  (beseechingly), 
"  don't  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  some  strange  wild  animal ; 
you'll  find  a  good  many  of  the  same  kind,  I  assure  you, 
the  other  side  of  the  Channel." 

Dolores  smiles.  She,  like  a  great  many  older  women, 
cannot  help  regarding  him  as  one  does  a  beautiful,  way- 
ward child.  As  a  woman  once  said  of  him,  "If  he  had 
not  his  handsome  face,  and  that  languid,  caressing  voice, 
one  would  think  him  intolerably  selfish  and  impertinent ; 
but  he  can  afford  to  say  or  do  anything." 

Milly  is  quite  under  the  influence.  When  he  speaks 
caressingly  to  her,  what  is  there  she  would  not  do  or  sac- 
rifice for  him  ?  But  how  she  hates  to  hear  him  use  that 
tone  to  any  other  woman  ! — and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  does 
now  more  often  than  to  her.  She  is  horribly,  painfully 
jealous  of  him  ;  she  is  already  jealous  even  of  Dolores,  to 
whom  he  is  pleased  to  be  very  kind  and  gracious,  and  is 
sorry  to  think  the  girl  is  going  to  make  her  home  with 
them  even  though  it  is  only  for  a  week.  She  fights 
against  the  feeling,  and  tries  to  be  all  the  kinder  to  her 
brother's  future  wife;  but  her  face  is  too  expressive  to 


THE    CLIFFS   OF  ALBION. 


297 


conceal  entirely  what  she  feels.  At  all  events,  Guy 
reads  it. 

Boulogne  is  reached ;  they  are  on  board  the  boat,  and 
Dolores  is  quite  bewildered  by  hearing  English  spoken 
on  all  sides  of  her. 

"How  strange  it  all  sounds!"  she  says,  clinging  to 
Guy's  arm  nervously.  "Do  you  know,  I  cannot  under- 
stand half  they  say,  and  they  seem  to  talk  so  fast !" 

"  Little  Frenchwoman  !"  he  smiles,  drawing  her  nearer 
to  his  protecting  strength.  "It  will  all  be  familiar 
enough  to  you  soon.  Now  let  me  go  and  find  a  comfort- 
able place  for  you  and  Milly,  where  you  will  be  out  of 
the  smell  of  smoke,  and  the  bustle." 

"Is— is  Mrs.  Charteris"  (hesitatingly)  "ever  ill?" 

"Never,  I  believe.  But  I  don't  think  you  need  be 
afraid,  dearest;  besides,  it  won^t  be  rough  to-day." 

"I  think,"  says  Dolores,  shyly,  "that  I  shall  go 
down-stairs,  because"  (blushing)  "I  am  told  the  mal  de 
mer  comes  on  very  suddenly." 

Though  there  is  a  fresh  breeze  outside,  and  several  of 
the  passengers  suffer — notably  the  two  Frenchwomen — 
Dolores  enjoys  her  trip  thoroughly ;  and  Guy  is  charmed 
to  think  how  well  this  beginning  augurs  for  his  yachting 
plans.  They  arrive  in  excellent  time  at  Milly's  house  in 
May  Fair — a  very  much  larger  one  than  the  first  we  saw 
her  in,  for,  by  Adrian's  wish,  she  has  let  her  country 
house  and  come  to  live  permanently  in  town.  She  would 
have  been  quite  content  to  live  down  there  with  him — 
would  have  liked,  indeed,  much  better  to  keep  him  away 
from  the  temptations  of  London,  fond  as  she  is  of  it  her- 
self— but  he  resolutely  combated  the  idea. 

"What  the  deuce  could  I  possibly  do  down  there  among 
an  infernally  stupid  lot  of  country  squires  and  squiresses, 
and  parsons  and  parsonesses  ?  The  shooting  is  very  fair, 
N* 


ig8  DOLORES. 

but  it  isn't  as  good  as  Guy's,  and  I  can  always  have  as 
much  of  that  as  I  like,  besides  heaps  of  other  places 
where  I  am  used  to  go  regularly ;  and  of  course,  if  you 
have  a  place  of  your  own,  you  are  bound  to  entertain, 
and  it's  deuced  expensive,  besides  being  a  bore." 

"I  don't  think  there  is  anything  pleasanter  than  en- 
tertaining, if  you  have  a  nice  party,"  rejoins  Milly; 
"and  I  hate  to  be  under  obligations  to  anybody." 

"Oh,  that's  all  very  well  if  you've  got  twenty  thou- 
sand a  year;  but  we  have  only  four,  and  it's  no  use  think- 
ing of  it.  And  if  we  want  to  ask  any  one  particularly, 
I'll  get  my  mother  to  have  them  to  Wentworth.  Guy  is 
sure  not  to  object." 

"  Well,  but  suppose  your  brother  marries."  (This  con- 
versation is  soon  after  Milly's  marriage.) 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  will ;  but,  if  he  does,  I  shall  make 
myself  agreeable  to  my  sister-in-law,  and  you  can  do  the 
same  to  Guy,  and  we  shall  get  all  we  want." 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  these  views  are  very  little 
in  accordance  with  Milly's  own,  but  she  gives  way,  at  all 
events,  on  the  subject  of  letting  the  house,  much  as  she 
dislikes  the  idea. 

Adrian  takes  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course ;  he  is  accus- 
tomed to  have  sacrifices  made  for  him.  When  Guy  heard 
all  this,  which  he  did  from  his  brother  in  Paris,  he  said 
to  himself,  "  Milly  shall  not  miss  her  country-house. 
Wentworth  shall  be  her  home  whenever  she  chooses  to  go 
to  it."  But  now  that  circumstances  are  so  changed,  that 
he  is  going  to  marry  Dolores,  and  that  he  feels  Milly's 
absence,  not  her  presence,  is  essential  to  his  happiness  and 
well-being,  he  is  utterly  perplexed  what  to  do. 

"  Adrian  will  of  course  expect  to  come  to  Wentworth 
for  partridge  and  pheasant-shooting;  she  must  come  if 
he  does;  and  then,"  adds  Guy,  groaning,  "there  will  be 


LADY  WENTWORTH. 


299 


the  old  story  over  again,  and  worse,  for  when  Dolores  is 
mistress  at  the  Court,  if  she  chooses  to  be  jealous,  she  can 
make  it  very  unpleasant  for  Milly.  She  is  a  dear,  good 
little  girl ;  but  once  a  woman  is  jealous,  and  in  a  posi- 
tion to  wreak  her  resentment  on  her  rival,  they're  all  the 

very " 

"  Wentworth  Station  !"  shrieks  the  porter  at  this  junc- 
ture ;  for  the  last  soliloquy  has  taken  place  in  the  train. 
en  route  for  Wentworth  Court. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

LADY   WENTWORTH. 

LADY  WENTWORTH  is  sitting  in  her  own  room,  await- 
ing the  arrival  of  her  son.  It  is  indeed  what  most  ladies 
would  call  their  boudoir ;  but  Lady  Wentworth  likes  plain 
English  names,  and  it  therefore  always  goes  by  the  name 
of  "  my  lady's  sitting-room."  Every  article  in  it  is  hand- 
some, and  useful  too,  if  we  except  the  beautiful  collection 
of  china,  which  is  my  lady's  chief  delight.  She  is  one  of 
the  old  school,  but  without  the  homeliness  that  usually 
characterizes  that  type :  she  is  essentially  a  grande  dame. 
You  recognize  that  at  once  by  her  manner  and  dress.  She 
never  wears  anything  but  the  richest  silks  and  brocades, 
even  to  visit  her  garden  and  poultry-yard ;  but  on  these 
occasions  her  dress  is  always  looped  daintily  over  a  spot- 
less-white petticoat,  just  disclosing  what  is  still  a  beautiful 
little  foot,  in  a  clocked-silk  stocking  and  high-heeled  shoe, 
and  a  large  white  muslin  apron  protects  the  front  of  her 
dress.  Her  hair,  almost  white  now,  is  brushed  up  after 
the  manner  of  an  old  picture,  and  surmounted  by  a  cap 


300  DOLORES. 

of  costly  lace.  Her  delicate  fingers  always  flash  with 
diamonds. 

She  has  her  own  ideas  about  the  devoir  of  an  English 
lady,  as  her  son  (who  probably  inherits  them  from  her) 
has  his  of  what  is  right  and  proper  for  himself.  She  thinks 
it  the  business  of  a  woman  of  quality  to  act  and  dress  in 
accordance  with  her  position — silk  and  satin  and  rich 
fabrics  are  the  appropriate  garb  of  the  rich  and  well-born, 
cotton  and  woolen  material  for  the  lower  classes.  She  has 
never  permitted  her  children,  or  any  servant  but  her  maid, 
to  see  her  en  deshabille;  she  would  consider  by  so  doing 
that  she  derogated  from  the  dignity  of  her  position  as 
head  of  the  house.  Her  servants  stand  in  great  awe  of 
her,  though  they  are  devoted  to  her,  for  she  is  the  kindest 
and  most  considerate  mistress  in  the  world;  only  her 
orders  must  be  obeyed  to  the  letter. 

Certainly  she  is  an  autocrat,  although  her  rule  is  a  kindly 
one.  To  the  poor  she  is  a  bountiful  benefactress,  although 
she  takes  care  to  discriminate  in  her  benevolence ;  and  it 
is  these  who  least  of  all  are  inclined  to  agree  in  the  gen- 
eral opinion  that  she  is  proud  and  haughty.  It  is  natural 
that  a  woman  of  a  dominant  temper,  living  for  many 
years  in  a  state  of  absolute  authority  over  the  people  about 
her,  should  become  a  little  arbitrary  and  exacting;  but 
Lady  Wentworth  has  such  a  fund  of  real  kindness  and 
courtesy  underlying  her  proud  exterior  that  those  who 
know  her  well  see  much  more  to  love  and  admire  than 
to  fear. 

She  superintends  every  detail  of  her  household,  and 
feels  with  some  pride  that  when  Guy  brings  home  a  wife 
to  the  Court  she  will  be  able  to  deliver  up  the  reins  of 
government  and  hand  over  everything  in  perfect  order 
to  the  new  mistress.  It  will  be  a  very  sore  trial  to  her  to 
leave  Wentworth  and  retire  to  the  Dower  House ;  but  she 


LADY   WE  NT  WORTH. 


301 


has  been  preparing  to  meet  the  blow  ever  since  Guy  has 
been  of  a  marriageable  age ;  for  she  is  perfectly  deter- 
mined that  no  persuasion  shall  induce  her  to  remain  one 
day  after  the  new  chdtelaine  is  installed.  She  will  come 
to  the  Court  as  a  visitor,  but,  let  the  then  mistress  mis- 
manage her  house  as  she  may,  her  lips  shall  be  sealed. 

Lady  Wentworth  from  choice  leads  a  somewhat  retired 
life,  although  she  makes  a  charming  hostess,  and  has  always 
been  ready  and  willing  to  entertain  any  friends  whom  her 
sons  choose  to  invite ;  all  their  men  friends  are  devoted 
to  her — sometimes  the  women  think  her  a  little  stiff  and 
old-fashioned.  However,  the  house  is  a  most  pleasant 
one  to  stay  in,  and  Guy  and  his  mother,  equally  thoughtful 
and  hospitable,  take  ample  care  to  provide  amusement  for 
their  guests  of  both  sexes.  She  is  very  fond  of  young 
people,  and  somehow  or  other  the  most  wayward  boy  or 
girl  never  takes  liberties  in  her  presence.  She  belongs  to 
a  very  old  family,  whose  fortunes  were  somewhat  decayed 
in  her  girlhood,  through  the  extravagance  of  her  father, 
and  his  father  before  him.  She  had  one  brother  and  two 
sisters.  All  three  girls  were  remarkably  handsome,  and 
were  expected  to  redeem  the  family  fortunes  by  good 
marriages.  The  two  younger  ones  amply  fulfilled  the  ex- 
pectations that  had  been  formed  for  them  ;  but  Margaret, 
the  eldest,  afterwards  Lady  Wentworth,  had  fallen  deeply 
in  love  with  her  handsome  cousin,  Captain  Charteris,  and 
had  engaged  herself  to  him,  although  her  family  utterly 
refused  to  sanction  the  marriage.  With  all  her  heart  and 
soul  she  loved  this  man,  who  was  certainly  not  worthy  of 
so  great  a  love,  and  for  his  sake  would  have  remained 
unmarried  to  the  day  of  her  death;  but  he  made  any 
sacrifice  on  her  part  unnecessary,  by  himself  marrying  a 
woman  a  good  deal  his  senior,  with  a  large  fortune. 

At  this  time  Margaret,  who  was  seven-and-twenty,  still 
26 


302 


DOLORES. 


handsome  and  very  unhappy,  met  Sir  Guy  Wentworth, 
who  fell  deeply  in  love  with  her,  and  by  his  extreme  kind- 
ness and  tenderness  for  her  won,  if  not  her  love,  at  all 
events  her  friendship  and  esteem.  For  four  years  they 
lived  happily  together,  Lady  Wentworth  making  an  ad- 
mirable wife,  and  her  husband  thinking  there  was  no 
woman  in  the  world  like  her;  then,  after  a  short  illness, 
Sir  Guy  died,  leaving  her  with  one  child,  a  boy,  two  years 
old.  Very  deeply  and  sincerely  did  she  regret  him,  but 
it  was  not  wonderful  that  when,  some  eighteen  months 
later,  she  again  met  the  man  whom  she  had  so  passion- 
ately loved,  and  he,  being  also  free,  asked  her  to  marry 
him,  she  consented.  And  was  she  happy  when  she  ob- 
tained her  heart's  desire  ?  She  was  never  heard  to  say 
aught  to  the  contrary,  but  her  cheeks  grew  thin  and  pale. 
Colonel  Charteris  was  frequently  absent  from  home.  One 
son  was  born  of  this  marriage,  and  a  daughter,  who  died 
in  her  infancy. 

In  a  locket  set  round  with  brilliants  which  never  left 
the  mother's  neck,  was  a  miniature  of  one  of  the  loveliest 
child's  faces  conceivable.  Perhaps  the  mother  loved  it 
all  the  more  because  it  was  so  like  the  husband  she  adored. 
For,  in  spite  of  all,  perhaps  because  of  all,  she  loved  him 
with  the  same  unchanging  love,  and  when  he  died,  ten 
years  after  their  marriage,  it  almost  broke  her  heart.  For 
years  after,  she  was  scarcely  seen  to  smile,  and  could 
harly  even  bear  to  have  her  children  with  her.  Good 
men  and  women  are  rarely  loved  and  regretted  like 
those  who  have  made  the  hearts  of  those  who  love  them 
ache  so  bitterly.  I  wonder  why  ! 

The  two  boys  grew  up,  and  in  her  heart  the  younger 
was  dearer  to  the  mother,  although  she  strove  conscien- 
tiously not  to  show  any  difference ;  but  Guy  knew  from 
a  child  that  he  was  not  his  mother's  favorite,  and  felt  it 


LADY  WENTWORTH. 


3°3 


keenly.  Nevertheless  he  had  always  been  a  kind  and 
affectionate  brother  to  Adrian,  and  many  a  difficulty  had 
he  helped  him  out  of  since  they  were  boys  together. 
Lady  Wentworth  had  the  highest  opinion  of  her  elder 
son — she  both  loved  and  respected  him — but  Adrian  was 
the  darling,  the  apple  of  her  eye,  as  his  father  had  been 
before  him ;  there  was  just  the  same  difference  in  her  love 
for  her  children  as  there  had  been  in  her  love  for  their 
fathers.  She  knew  and  deplored  Adrian's  selfishness  and 
instability  of  character,  but  there  was  no  sacrifice  in  the 
world  she  would  not  have  made  for  him.  All  his  life  she 
had  been  saving  for  him,  for  Colonel  Charteris  had  only 
a  life-interest  in  his  first  wife's  money,  and  died  in  debt, 
having  also  spent  what  little  he  had  of  his  own.  Guy, 
out  of  sheer  good  will,  allowed  him  seven  hundred  a 
year,  which  he  did  not  see  fit  to  withdraw  on  his  mar- 
riage, and  the  other  three  hundred  came  from  his  mother. 
Three  times,  between  them,  Lady  Wentworth  and  Guy  had 
paid  his  debts.  First  he  went  into  a  cavalry  regiment, 
then  exchanged  into  the  Guards,  and  finally  sold  out, 
considering  it  too  great  a  bore  to  be  under  anybody's 
orders.  All  this  time  he  had  lived  as  though  he  pos- 
sessed Guy's  fortune,  and  it  was  not  until  Guy  was  called 
upon  to  pay  his  debts  for  the  third  time — eight  thousand 
pounds  on  this  occasion — that  he  ever  spoke  with  harsh- 
ness to  him. 

"Look  here,  Adrian,"  he  said,  sternly,  "I'm  not  fond 
of  reminding  people  of  what  I  have  done  for  them.  I 
think  you  know  by  this  time  that's  not  much  in  my  line; 
but  I'm  going  to  do  it  now,  once  for  all.  You  are  not 
my  own  brother,  you  have  no  actual  claim  upon  me  what- 
ever, but  since  I  came  of  age  I  have  regularly  allowed  you 
seven  hundred  a  year ;  on  different  occasions  I  have  paid 
three  thousand,  five  thousand,  and  eight  thousand  pounds 


DOLORES. 

for  you,  and  this  shall  be  the  last,  I  take  my  solemn  oath ! 
My  house  is  your  home,  my  chambers  in  town  are  at  your 
disposal  whenever  you  choose,  my  horses,  my  yacht,  and 
almost  everything  I  possess.  If  you  have  not  sufficient 
gentlemanlike  feeling  to  know  that  it  is  a  blackguard 
thing  to  abuse  generosity,  I  must  take  it  upon  myself, 
painful  as  it  is,  God  knows,  to  remind  you.  Once  for 
all,  I  will  not  pay  any  more  of  your  debts.  With  a 
thousand  a  year,  and  free  quarters,  if  you  can't  live  like 
a  gentleman,  I'm  sorry  for  you,  but  you  will  have  no 
more  from  me,  I  swear  to  you.  And  I  think  you  know 
when  I  have  once  passed  my  word  I  generally  stick  to 
it." 

This  happened  about  three  months  before  Adrian's 
meeting  with  Mrs.  Scarlett,  or  he  would,  in  all  prob- 
ability, never  have  thought  of  marrying  at  all.  He  said 
as  much  to  Guy  one  night  in  Paris. 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  maliciously,  "you 
might  so  easily  have  become  the  owner  of  your  fair 
sister-in-law,  if  you  had  not  been  so  infernally  stingy 
with  me  after  my  little  difficulties.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
money,  I  wouldn't  have  married  the  loveliest  woman  on 
God's  earth!"  (sighing).  "There  isn't  one  in  all  Eng- 
land and  France  I  wouldn't  sooner  have  for  a  sister-in-law 
than  a  wife." 

Guy  frowned  and  bit  his  lip,  and  Adrian,  smiling  to 
himself,  enjoyed  his  little  piece  of  revenge. 

Lady  Wentworth  had  been  pleased  with  her  younger 
son's  marriage.  She  considered  Milly  elegant,  well  bred, 
and  very  good  style ;  her  fortune,  too,  was  a  great  desid- 
eratum. And  now  she  is  called  upon  to  approve  Guy's 
choice  of  a  wife,  for  the  last  letters  she  has  received  from 
both  himself  and  Milly  leave  no  doubt  in  her  mind  that 
he  intends  to  marry,  and  she  is  waiting  anxiously  for  his 


LADY  WENTWORTH.  305 

arrival,  that  she  may  hear  full  particulars  concerning  her 
new  daughter-in-law.  Her  mind,  too,  has  been  dwelling 
considerably  on  her  own  future ;  she  has  spent  a  whole 
morning  at  the  Dower  House,  arranging  in  her  own  mind 
the  purposes  to  which  she  will  devote  the  various  rooms 
and  the  new  furniture  that  will  be  required.  She  has 
always  had  the  gardens  kept  up,  as  flowers  are  the  things 
she  cares  most  for. 

"I  am  surprised,"  she  says  to  herself,  "that  Milly  has 
never  mentioned  the  young  lady's  connections.  I  do  not 
like  Guy's  proposing  upon  so  short  an  acquaintance.  I 
fear  he  has  not  taken  proper  care  to  assure  himself  that 
she  is  desirable  in  point  of  family  as  well  as  personal 
attractions,  and  it  would  be  indeed  deplorable  to  bring 
into  the  family,  as  head  of  it,  a  person  of  whose  antece- 
dents one  had  reason  to  be  ashamed.  I  wonder  if  Guy  is 
altered.  It  is  a  year  since  I  have  seen  him.  What  can 
have  made  him  take  such  a  sudden  idea  of  traveling  into 
his  head  ?  Adrian  half  hinted  to  me — but,  oh,  I  hope 
that  was  not  true — at  all  events,  he  must  be  cured  now.  I 
should  never  have  fancied  Guy  a  man  to  fall  suddenly  or 
violently  in  love ;  but  how  little  one  knows  even  of  one's 
own  children  !" 

A  sound  of  wheels  strikes  upon  her  ear;  in  another 
moment  she  hears  Guy's  cheery  greeting  to  the  servants ; 
another,  and  he  throws  the  door  open,  and  is  clasped  in 
her  arms.  They  have  not  met  for  more  than  a  year  j  the 
tears  come  into  the  mother's  eyes  as  she  feels  the  strong 
arms  of  her  first-born  round  her ;  his  are  dim  too. 

"  Why,  mother,  you  look  positively  younger,"  he  says, 
looking  fondly  in  her  face.  "  I  haven't  seen  any  one  so 
handsome  as  you  all  the  time  I've  been  away." 

"And  you,"  she  replies,  smiling  through  her  tears — 
"  you  are  grown,  I  think.  How  bronzed  you  are  !  You 
U  26* 


306  DOLORES. 

are  a  little  thin,  too;  but  you  look  very  well"  (proudly). 
"I  never  thought  you  so  good-looking  before." 

"How  complimentary  we  both  are  !"  he  says,  laughing. 
"Absence  works  wonders — doesn't  it,  mother?" 

"Come,  dear  boy,"  she  answers,  drawing  him  to  the 
sofa,  "tell  me  about  Adrian  and  Milly,  and  my  new 
daughter-in-law. ' ' 

"  Oh,"  says  Guy,  reddening,  though  he  has  been  prepar- 
ing himself  a  whole  week  for  the  question,  "  Adrian  and 
his  wife  are  all  right ;  and  with  regard  to  the  other  mat- 
ters, it  is  such  a  long  story  that  it  won't  do  to  begin  now. 
I  feel  so  dirty,  after  traveling,  and  it  is  nearly  dinner- 
time. Let  me  dress  and  dine,  and  then,  you  know,  my 
dear  mother,  we  shall  have  all  the  evening  before  us." 

"Tell  me  one  thing,  Guy,"  asks  his  mother,  anxiously 
detaining  him,  "  you  forgot  to  say  in  your  letter — does 
she  belong  to  a  good  family?" 

"  You  shall  hear  all  in  good  time,"  he  answers,  making 
his  escape. 

Dinner  is  over,  the  servants  are  gone,  and  Lady  Went- 
worth  comes  over  and  seats  herself  in  an  arm-chair  by 
her  son. 

"Now,  my  dear,"  she  says,  taking  his  hand  affection- 
ately, "  I  am  all  impatience." 

"Well,  mother,"  he  answers,  returning  the  pressure, 
"  it  is  for  you  to  put  questions,  and  for  me  to  answer  them. 
Of  course  you  will  want  to  know  what  she  is  like." 

"Of  course;  though  that  is  not  the  most  important 
matter,  after  all." 

"  Well,  without  undue  prejudice,  I  may  say  that  she  is 
extremely  pretty,  as  every  one  else  is  of  the  same  opinion. 
She  is  slim,  though  not  short,  has  lovely  eyes  and  hair,  a 
skin  like  a  white  lily;  she  speaks  French  better  than 
English,  and  is  a  perfect  little  lady." 


LADY  WE  NT  WORTH. 


307 


"I  shall  like  to  see  her,"  says  the  mother,  smiling. 
"  And  I  suppose,  Guy,  you  are  desperately  in  love  with 
her?" 

"  Oh,  she  is  the  dearest  little  girl  in  the  world." 

But,  to  the  mother's  keen  ears,  the  true  ring  is  wanting 
in  the  tone. 

"And  where  did  you  first  meet  her?" 

It  has  been  arranged  between  Guy  and  Milly  how  much 
is  to  be  told  to  Lady  Wentworth — they  both  know  her 
well  enough  to  feel  that,  if  she  were  aware  of  Dolores 
having  followed  him  to  Paris,  she  would  look  upon  it  as 
utterly  unpardonable,  and  would  be  at  once  fatally  preju- 
diced against  her.  So  he  tells  his  mother  of  his  meeting 
with  her  in  the  old  Rue  Eau  de  Robec,  of  his  wishing  to 
sketch  her,  and  of  his  obtaining  a  tardy  permission  from 
Marcelline ;  but  he  says  nothing  of  his  frequent  visits,  or 
the  child's  sudden  fancy  for  him,  but  proceeds  swiftly  to 
the  second  meeting  in  Paris. 

His  mother  interrupts  him. 

"You  have  mentioned  that  she  had  a  mother,  but  I 
should  like  to  hear  a  little  more  about  her ;  and  you  have 
not  yet  told  me  who  her  father  was." 

So  Guy,  painfully  conscious  of  the  difficulty  of  the  Usk, 
tells  her  all  he  has  heard  of  Mrs.  Power,  of  the  letters  sha 
left  at  her  death,  and  her  solitary  life  at  Rouen.  At  each 
word  the  mother's  heart  sinks  lower.  When  he  ha^  said 
all  there  is  to  say,  an  icy  hand  seems  to  hold  her — she 
cannot  speak  a  word.  An  unknown  illegitimate  girl  mis- 
tress of  Wentworth,  the  successor  of  a  long  line  of  women 
whose  connections  had  been  sometimes  among  the  highest, 
but  always  unimpeachable.  And  Guy  was  not  committing 
this  folly  on  the  spur  of  a  mad,  unconquerable  passion  ! 

A  silence  falls  upon  both.  Guy  is  dimly,  uncomfortably 
conscious  of  what  is  taking  place  in  his  mother's  mind, 


308  DOLORES. 

and  he  is  not  in  love  enough  to  combat  her  objections 
and  hotly  take  up  the  defense  of  his  intended  wife. 

When  Lady  Wentworth  speaks  again,  it  is  in  an  altered 
voice,  as  though  she  had  suddenly  awakened  from  a  doze. 

"Ring  for  coffee,  Guy,  and  we  will  go  into  my  room, 
and  you  must  tell  me  all  about  your  travels. ' ' 

Guy  is  glad  enough  to  change  the  subject ;  nor  do  they 
again  revert  to  it  during  the  evening.  When  his  mother 
has  retired  for  the  night,  he  betakes  himself  to  his 
room,  and,  lighting  a  cigar,  proceeds  to  commune  with 
his  own  thoughts.  "  I  knew  she  would  take  it  badly,  but 
this  is  worse  than  I  expected.  Very  likely  she  will  refuse 
to  receive  Dolores  here  until  she  comes  as  my  wife.  Well," 
sighing,  "I  suppose  it  is  not  a  very  good  business.  I 
wonder  why  Fate  was  pleased  to  turn  my  steps  to  Paris, 
and  above  all  things  into  the  Louvre,  on  that  identical 
morning.  I  dare  say  she  would  have  been  happy  enough 
with  him  if  she  hadn't  met  me.  And,"  with  a  groan, 
"what  am  I  going  to  do  with  her  all  my  life?  One 
can't  force  love;  and  perhaps  she  will  grow  to  hate  me  in 
time,  when  she  finds  I'm  a  very  mediocre  sort  of  fellow, 
instead  of  the  hero  she  has  set  up  in  her  poor  foolish  little 
heart.  I  wonder  why  on  earth  one  was  sent  into  this 
world  at  all,  or,  once  here,  why  we  can't  be  allowed  to 
be  happy  ?  I  used  to  be  happy  enough  until  last  year — 
the  world  was  good  enough  for  me  then ;  I  seemed  to 
have  dropped  into  an  easy,  comfortable  life — hunting 
and  shooting,  yachting  and  women's  society.  I  could 
enjoy  them  to  the  full ;  and  now  somehow  I  don't  seem 
to  care  for  any  of  them.  And  all  this  is  the  doing  of  one 
woman,  and  no  fault  of  hers  either,  God  knows !  I've 
fancied  myself  in  love  plenty  of  times  before,  but  it  was 
always  pleasant,  and  never  interfered  with  the  other 
things  I  cared  for ;  but  this  seems  to  scorch  up  everything 


IN  THE  ROW.  309 

else,  to  lay  all  my  life  waste  and  bare,  and  yet  never  to 
have  given  me  anything  in  its  stead.  And  she  ! — Adrian 
will  break  her  heart  in  time,  as  his  father  broke  my 
mother's,  curse  him  !  No,  I  don't  mean  that — God  for- 
give me  for  saying  anything  bitter  against  the  dead ;  but 
only  to  think  of  men  having  such  women  as  those  and 
not  caring  for  them  !  I  used  to  feel  it  was  such  a  good 
thing  only  to  live,  but  now  I  think  I  should  be  plad  to  be 
well  out  of  it." 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

IN  THE  ROW. 

IT  is  the  first  week  in  May,  the  weather  is  bright  and 
June-like,  and  the  London  season  has  commenced  in  good 
earnest.  The  Row  is  sufficiently  full  to  be  pleasant- 
there  is  not  the  disagreeable  crowding  you  get  later  on, 
when  the  mass  of,  for  the  most  part,  tawdrily  got-up  hu- 
manity seethes  up  and  down  the  narrow  path,  treading  on 
each  other's  toes  and  gowns,  proceeding  at  about  the 
same  pace  they  would  out  of  a  crowded  church — some 
gushing,  some  with  sickly  smiles,  some  with  hot-faced, 
weary  discontent. 

But  this  warm  May  morning  the  assemblage  is  quite  of 
the  elite.  There  are  some  charming  toilettes  ;  dresses  and 
complexions  look  fresh  ;  the  fair  Amazons  glow  with  the 
flush  of  their  healthful  exercise;  the  horses  are  gay  and 
full  of  spirit ;  and  as  for  the  men,  they  are  about  as  good- 
looking,  well-dressed  a  lot  as  England  can  produce,  and 
I  defy  any  other  country  in  the  world  to  match  them. 


3ro  DOLORES. 

Everything  and  every  one  looks  so  bright  and  well  and 
cheery  this  morning,  it  is  a  very  difficult  matter  to  believe 
they  are  not  all  as  gay  and  light-hearted  as  they  look ;  but 
we,  who  know  the  world  and  are  behind  the  scenes,  are 
well  aware  what  the  gay  mask  hides.  Some  of  them  may 
be  pleased  and  amused,  even  happy,  but  with  the  major- 
ity, behind  the  smile  there  lurks,  if  not  a  heartache,  still 
an  unfilled  want,  a  yearning  after  something  that  is  not 
"vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit."  Still  the  faces  smile, 
the  voices  are  cheery,  and  the  scene  is  bright  enough  to 
take  in  the  outside  public. 

There  is  a  girl  of  about  sixteen  standing  by  the  rails, 
utterly  absorbed  in  contemplating  the  gay  scene.  She 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story,  and  you,  reader,  if  you 
had  seen  her,  would  not  have  remarked  her  in  any  way, 
but  we,  whose  business  it  is  to  try  to  beguile  your  idle 
hours,  have  to  go  about  with  our  eyes  open,  and  concern 
ourselves  with  things  and  people  you  would  not  take  the 
trouble  to  remark ;  and  then,  you  know,  we  are  thought- 
readers,  and  have  the  gift  of  divining  what  people  are 
thinking  about.  So  it  comes  that  I  sit  for  some  half  an 
hour  watching  this  girl,  and  seeming  to  read  her  heart, 
and  in  my  own  way  to  be  answering  her  thoughts.  But 
if  this  seems  tedious,  the  gentle  reader  has  only  to  turn 
over  a  few  pages,  and  get  back  to  the  story,  should  it  be 
so  fortunate  as  to  interest  him.  But  I  cannot  part  com- 
pany from  my  humble  little  friend  just  yet.  I  see  in  her 
so  much  more  than  appears  on  the  surface ;  in  her  eyes  I 
read  ambition,  impatience  of  her  humble  sphere,  and  such 
a  craving  after  the  happiness  she  imagines  she  sees  before 
her.  She  is  thinking  enviously  and  longingly  how  in- 
tensely happy  all  these  elegant,  well-dressed  people  must 
be ;  she  is  painfully  conscious  of  her  own  poor,  cheap, 
unfashionable  clothes,  her  ill-made  boots,  the  loutish 


IN  THE  ROW.  3H 

young  fellow  who  is  her  companion,  and  she  thinks,  only 
to  be  one  of  these  ladies — only  to  be  beautifully  dressed, 
and  surrounded  by  handsome,  distinguished-looking  men, 
must  be  heaven  upon  earth.  She  wonders  bitterly  in  her 
heart  why  her  lot  in  life  should  be  so  hardly  different — • 
why  she,  yearning  after  all  these  enviable  things,  should 
be  shut  out  from  them  ?  She  does  not  dream — how  should 
she  ? — that  in  all  this  gay  bright  throng  there  is,  perhaps, 
not  one  really  happy,  contented  heart.  She  does  not  know 
— how  should  she  ? — that  these  beings  of  another  world 
from  hers  suffer  as  much  from  being  "bored"  as  poor 
people  do  from  want,  and  misery,  and  privation.  Ennui 
is  as  much  the  curse  of  the  upper  ranks  of  society  as  pov- 
erty is  of  the  lower.  I  hardly  know  which  is  hardest  to 
bear,  the  hunger  of  the  body  or  the  hunger  of  the  heart — 
that  perpetual  weariness,  perpetual  desire  of  amusement, 
perpetual  striving  to  get  out  of  themselves.  Nine-tenths 
of  the  time  the  whirl  of  gayety  they  fling  themselves  into 
doesn't  amuse  them,  and  yet  without  it  they  would  be 
utterly,  hopelessly  wretched.  Half  an  hour's  amusement, 
excitement,  pleasure,  will  probably  be  followed  by  the  re- 
action of  weariness  or  morbid  discontent.  If  they  have 
enjoyed  a  little,  they  want  always  to  enjoy.  It  seems 
hard,  shameful,  cruel,  that  the  world  should  paint  life  in 
such  fair  colors  one  moment,  to  blur  them  into  dull  drabs 
and  grays  the  next.  My  lady  in  her  dainty  boudoir  is 
dull  and  cross  and  vexed  because  she  has  caught  cold,  and 
her  doctor  has  forbidden  her  to  go  out  in  the  evening 
until  she  has  lost  it ;  and  so  she  sits  and  frets  and  chafes, 
thinking  herself  the  most  ill-used,  unhappy  mortal,  because 
she  is  missing  four  or  five  entertainments,  that  probably 
would  not  have  amused  her,  and  forgets  that  there  are  in 
this  very  city  many  as  young  as  she  who  are  stretched  on 
beds  of  sickness  and  suffering — some  who,  perchance,  will 


312  DOLORES. 

never  walk  abroad  in  God's  fair  sunshine  again.  Why 
can't  we  bring  ourselves  to  look  at  the  bright  side  of 
things,  and  be  thankful  for  all  the  blessings  we  have, 
instead  of  being  discontented  and  longing  for  the  grapes 
that  grow  out  of  our  reach  ?  Well  for  us  if  we  could  em- 
ulate Reynard's  sagacity,  and  call  them  sour,  instead  of 
longing  and  striving  after  them  and  fancying  them  ten 
times  sweeter  than  they  are.  You  see  women,  pretty, 
admired,  fashionable,  and  you,  who  perhaps  don't  possess 
these  attributes,  think  they  ought  to  be  immensely  happy 
and  contented.  Are  they  ?  Not  a  bit  more,  perhaps  not 
half  so  much  as  you,  my  friend.  Why?  Because  the 
more  you  have  of  the  good  things  of  this  world,  the  more 
you  want,  and  the  less  it  is  in  their  power  to  satisfy  you. 
Oh,  hard,  if  just  dispensation  !  And  perhaps  of  all  unsat- 
isfying, heart-breaking,  spirit-wearing  things  in  the  world, 
perpetual  pleasure-seeking  is  the  most  stale,  flat,  and  un- 
profitable. Have  not  nearly  all  the  happiest  moments  of 
our  lives  been  those  in  which  we  did  not  preconcert  our 
pleasure  ?  and  have  not  nearly  all  those  plans  from  which 
we  promised  ourselves  great  enjoyment  turned  out  lament- 
able failures  ?  So  with  the  pretty,  charming  women  of 
the  world — you  see  them  bright,  gay,  admired,  ergo  they 
must  be  happy ;  and  none  but  themselves  know  what  fail- 
ures, what  disappointments,  what  mortifications,  have 
gone  to  initiate  them  into  the  world-known  fact  that  "  all 
is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit." 

Well,  my  poor  little  girl  with  the  wistful  eyes  and  the 
dusty  boots,  come  with  me  a  moment,  and  I  will  put  you 
behind  the  poor  shabby  garish  scenes  that  look  like  fairy- 
land from  your  front  view.  You  see  all  these  pretty, 
fashionable,  elegant  women,  occupying  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  chairs,  or  moving  languidly  up  and  down,  for  the 
better  display  of  their  toilettes — you'll  be  very  much  sur- 


IN  THE  ROW. 

prised  to  hear  that  nine  out  often  are  quite  as  discontented 
as  you  are,  and  some  a  great  deal  more  so.  You  see  this 
lovely  woman  in  the  satin  and  lace,  with  fair  hair,  tapping 
a  dainty  little  impatient  foot  on  the  shelly  gravel.  Super- 
ficial observer  that  you  are,  you  only  see  that  she  is  beauti- 
ful, well  dressed,  and  talking  and  laughing  to  two  good 
looking  men ;  really  she  is  so  vexed  and  mortified  she  could 
cry,  because  she  made  a  rendezvous  with  that  fair,  long- 
moustached  man  five  chairs  lower  down,  and  he  has  been 
sitting  for  the  last  half-hour  talking  to  that  piquante 
brunette,  seeming  very  happy  indeed,  without  any  sign 
that  he  remembers  his  appointment. 

Well,  here  is  another,  radiant  with  smiles,  you  say — 
ah  !  but  you  can't  read  faces.  She  has  the  reputation  of 
being  a  good  deal  admired,  and  is  never  happy  untess  sur- 
rounded by  a  group  of  men,  because  she  knows  that  men 
are  like  sheep,  and  always  run  in  a  flock,  particularly 
after  a  woman;  and  this  morning  there  is  only  one  man 
talking  to  her,  and  he  no  one  in  particular,  so  that  rather 
effusive  smile  and  manner  are  to  prevent  any  one  discover- 
ing how  really  vexed  and  mortified  she  feels.  And  so 
on. 

This  one  is  disappointed  because  she  has  no  one  at  all 
to  talk  to ;  the  next,  because  the  man  she  sat  out  with  at 
a  ball  last  night,  and  who  seemed  so  cpris,  has  not  come  up 
to  speak  to  her ;  the  next,  because  a  very  plain,  badly- 
dressed  friend  from  the  country  has  taken  the  chair  beside 
her,  to  have  a  long  chat,  thereby  displacing  the  good-look- 
ing young  Guardsman  who  had  so  much  to  say  to  her ; 
another,  because  a  fair,  acquaintance  has  asked  her  with 
charming  malice  if  she  is  going  to  the  duchess's  to-morrow, 
and  seems  so  surprised  when  she  answers  in  the  negative ; 
another,  because  she  feels  her  new  bonnet  is  not  becoming ; 
another,  because  she  has  quarreled  with  her  lover;  another, 
o  27 


314 


DOLORES. 


because  she  has  had  her  milliner's  bill,  and,  bad  as  she 
expected  it  to  be,  had  no  conception  it  would  prove  so 
startling  !  How  on  earth  is  she  to  tell  her  husband  ? 

Well,  you  give  up  the  women — you  allow  they  are  dis- 
satisfied, and  with  some  reason ;  but  the  men,  they  look 
so  gay,  so  debonnaire — or,  if  not  that,  at  all  events  so 
supremely  indifferent  and  unimpressionable.  But  they 
are  worse  off  than  the  women — oh,  much  more  blast, 
much  more  bored !  The  season's  an  awful  bore,  the 
Row's  an  awful  bore;  it's  an  awful  bore  for  a  man  to  be 
kicking  his  heels  about  here,  and  dancing  attendance  on 
a  lot  of  women — they  don't  feel  fit  this  morning;  or 

they've  got  a  lawyer's  letter  about  that  d d  bill  they 

were  fool  enough  to  back  for  Blank ;  the  horse  they  were 
so  sweet  upon  has  gone  all  wrong;  the  woman  they're 
fond  of  has  turned  them  over  for  that  little  beast  with  his 
confounded  money;  they  can't  get  any  more  leave;  or— 
oh,  commonest  and  most  irritating  worry  of  all  these 
good-looking,  well-got-up  young  fellows — they  are  "hard 
up." 

"  There  is  no  end,  no  limit,  measure,  bound, 
In  that  word's  death." 

It  means  getting  deeper  into  the  hands  of  the  Jews;  it 
means  sending  their  horses  to  Tattersall's ;  it  means  selling 
out  of  the  regiment  they're  so  proud  of,  because  they  can't 
get  the  money  to  buy  their  next  step,  or  because  the  time 
has  come  when  they  can't  stave  off  their  creditors  any 
longer  ;  it  means  to  some,  binding  themselves  for  life  to 
a  woman  with  whom  they  haven't  one  sympathy  in  com- 
mon, to  others  exile,  if  only  temporary,  from  all  they  care 
for ;  it  means  vexation,  worry,  ceaseless,  perpetual,  unre- 
lenting. They  may  look  ever  so  cheery,  and  laugh  ever 
so  heartily,  these  dashing  young  fellows,  but  no  one  on 
this  earth,  whatever  we  hear  to  the  contrary,  can  be  really 


IN  THE  ROW.  315 

ttnconcerned  at  the  thought  that  he  is  in  debt  which  he 
does  not  see  the  way  clear  to  shake  off  without  dis- 
honor. 

And  so  you  see,  little  girl,  if  you'll  take  my  word  for  it. 
that  the  brilliant,  envied  beings  who  for  the  most  part  com- 
pose this  gay  throng  don't  all  wear  heart's-ease  in  their 
breasts.  I  dare  say,  though,  if  they  only  realized  the  pain 
and  suffering,  the  agony  and  want  that  is  going  on  day  and 
night  around  them  in  the  great  pitiless  world,  they  would 
be  a  little  ashamed  of  their  peevish  discontent  and  ennui. 
If  you,  madame,  rich,  good-looking,  admired,  could 
realize  the  dull,  forlorn,  loveless  life  of  some  of  your 
poor  sisters — say,  for  instance,  of  a  teacher  in  a  girls' 
school,  of  some  invalid's  companion,  some  poor  cripple 
or  deformed  creature  who  never  in  this  world  had  a  look 
of  love  or  admiration,  but  instead  perhaps  a  shuddering 
averted  glance.  You  see  vice,  squalor,  wretchedness 
sometimes,  when  you  drive  through  a  by-street,  leaning 
back  in  your  well-stuffed  carriage ;  or  often  enough, 
Heaven  knows,  in  our  broad  thoroughfares,  there  are 
poor  drabs  of  women,  with  all  beauty  and  lovableness 
seamed  and  distorted  out  of  their  rugged  faces.  Who 
made  you  to  differ  from  them  ? — you  might  have  been  in 
their  place,  and  they  in  yours.  Do  you  know,  as  you 
frivolously  toss  away  your  guineas  for  something  you  don't 
want,  that  there  are  people  starving  for  the  want  of  bread 
— poor,  cheap,  common  bread?  Do  you  know  there  are 
women  watching  the  poor,  emaciated  frames  of  the  chil- 
dren or  the  men  they  love,  heart-broken  because  they  have 
not  that  little  wherewithal  to  keep  the  poor  body  and 
soul  together,  or  to  minister  some  small  comfort  to  the 
dying  dear  one?  You  have  a  down  bed  to  lie  upon,  a 
soft  carriage  to  ride  in,  luxurious  food  to  eat,  beautiful 
clothes  to  wear;  how,  think  you,  would  you  make  the 


gi6  DOLORES. 

poor,  suffering,  hungry  toilers  understand  your  discon 
tent,  your  imaginary  grievances,  your  ennui?    Fancy  if 
you  only  realized  that  there  are  people  in  the  world  whose 
idea  of  heaven  is  "always  to  have  enough  to  eat." 

Throw  the  book  down :  it  is  dull,  wearisome,  stupid  ; 
you  don't  want  unpleasant  thoughts  put  into  your  head, 
you  want  to  be  amused.  I  have  done  with  my  shabby, 
ambitious  little  friend,  and  the  thoughts  she  has  brought 
crowding  to  my  brain,  and  am  ready  to  go  back  to  my 
story. 

Milly  and  Dolores  are  both  of  the  company  this  morn- 
ing; both  look  charming,  both  are  smiling,  and  yet  I 
fancy  neither  is  quite  happy  in  her  mind.  Dolores 
would  so  supremely  enjoy  this  new  life  that  has  opened 
upon  her  had  she  only  Guy  by  her  side,  but  she  has  never 
once  seen  him  during  the  fortnight  that  has  elapsed  since 
her  arrival  in  England.  He  writes  kind  letters,  but  has 
scarcely  once  mentioned  his  mother  or  alluded  to  her 
going  to  Wentworth  ;  and  though  she  writes  nearly  every 
day,  and  entreats  him  to  come  to  her  in  London,  and  tells 
him  the  only  thing  she  wants  to  make  her  quite  happy  is 
his  presence,  he  has  always  put  her  off  with  excuses  about 
his  affairs  and  the  attention  they  require  after  so  long  an 
absence.  Poor  child,  the  bitter  is  already  well  mixed 
with  the  sweet ;  the  future  that  had  seemed  so  fair  is 
growing  overcast,  and  she  has  said  to  herself  more  than 
once,  "  Oh,  why  did  I  ever  see  him  again  ?  I  had  for- 
gotten him,  and  was  so  happy  with  Philip  and  Mary." 
She  cannot  help  seeing  the  truth — his  mother  is  dis- 
pleased, and  will  not  invite  her  to  Wentworth ;  and  she 
knows,  oh,  she  is  quite  sure,  that  the  reason  Guy  does  not 
come  to  her  in  London  is  that  he  cannot  trust  himself  in 
the  presence  of  Mrs.  Charteris.  To  be  jealous  of  a 
woman  who  is  married !  Dolores  cannot  realize  it  to 


AN  INTRODUCTION. 


3'7 


herself,  and  yet  she  is  bitterly  jealous — so  jealous  that 
sometimes  she  hates  Milly.  Captain  Charteris  is  de- 
voted to  her,  insists  on  driving  her  in  his  phaeton,  speaks 
to  her  always  in  his  caressing  voice,  and  it  gives  her  a 
wicked  secret  pleasure  to  feel  that  she  can  make  Milly 
suffer  the  tortures  she  has  inflicted  upon  her.  For  jeal- 
ousy is  a  hateful  thing,  and  triumphs  over  every  good 
and  pure  feeling.  Milly  knows  she  cannot  bear  it  much 
longer ;  she  feels  she  owes  Guy  something — for  his  sake 
she  has  been  unvaryingly  kind  to  Dolores  ;  but  now  that 
Adrian  pays  her  this  marked  attention,  and  seems  to  take 
so  much  pleasure  in  her  society — even  though  she  knows 
that  Dolores  cares  for  no  one  in  the  world  but  Guy,  just 
as  Dolores  knows  Milly  is  utterly  and  solely  devoted  to 
her  husband — yet  the  girl's  presence  has  become  intoler- 
able to  her,  and  it  is  only  the  urgent  entreaties  of  Guy  to 
keep  her  until  his  mother  grows  into  a  better  frame  of 
mind,  that  prevents  her  writing  to  him  that  he  must  ab- 
solutely come  and  take  her  back  with  him  to  Wentworth. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

AN   INTRODUCTION. 

DOLORES  still  wears  slight  mourning  for  her  mother, 
whose  comparatively  recent  death  is  an  excuse  for  her  not 
going  to  balls  or  dinners  ;  but  she  sees  plenty  of  society 
at  Milly's  house,  in  the  Park,  and  at  the  Opera,  and  has 
been  introduced  already  to  many  of  Guy's  friends. 

"  She  is  a  great  success,"  Adrian  writes  to  his  brother : 
"in  fact,  if  you  don't  come  back  soon,  I  think  some 

27* 


3I8  DOLORES. 

bigger  swell  will  cut  you  out.  Horton  is  immensely  taken 
with  her ;  and  his  old  mother  was  asking  me  yesterday 
why  you  did  not  take  more  care  of  such  a  prize  ?  I  told 
her  ladyship  that  you  were  perfectly  satisfied  as  long  as 
she  was  under  my  respectable  guardianship ;  at  which  she 
tapped  me  with  her  fan  in  her  stupid  old  way,  and  said 
she  did  not  consider  me  a  suitable  guardian  for  a  pretty 
girl,  and  asked  how  my  wife  liked  her.  Of  course  I  re- 
plied immensely ;  but  in  my  own  mind  I  don't  think  there 
is  much  love  lost  between  the  two.  And  I  know  Milly 
has  been  infernally  cross  with  me  lately,  though  she  treats 
your  future  as  if  she  was  devoted  to  her. 

"  What  humbugs  women  are  !  By  Jove  !  it  would  take 
a  clever  fellow  to  understand  them.  I  don't;  and  I've 
seen  a  little  of  them,  too.  Apropos  of  that,  imagine  to 

yourself  that  Lady  B has  gone  off  with  that  old  wetch 

Y ,  with  his  wig  and  stays,  and  not  a  sixpence.  Mrs. 

S ,  they  say,  doesn't  care  twopence  about  Charlie,  as 

nice  and  good-looking  a  fellow  as  ever  breathed,  and  is 

head  over  ears  in  love  with  that  red-headed  brute,  G , 

in  the  Foreign  Office. 

"  But  about  Dolores — every  one  likes  her — the  women 
too — they  won't  long ;  and  no  unpleasant  questions  have 
been  asked.  I  believe  Mrs.  Vivian  was  rather  inquisitive, 
but,  as  you  know,  Milly  is  a  deuced  clever  woman,  what- 
ever else  she  may  not  be,  and  she  made  it  all  right  there. 
The  only  thing  people  seem  to  think  is,  that  it  is  a  little 
odd  you  are  never  with  her  ;  and  I  have  to  make  excuses 
about  business  matters  and  our  mother  not  liking  to  spare 
you.  However,  that  won't  go  down  much  longer;  and 
people  will  soon  begin  to  talk — you  know  pretty  well  how 
they  do.  It's  a  confounded  bore  my  lady  taking  it  so 
badly ;  but  I  thought  she  would ;  and  of  course  she  won't 
care  about  turning  out  of  Wentworth.  I  must  write  and 


AN  INTRODUCTION. 


3*9 


give  a  flaming  account  of  Dolores  to  her.  She  has  never 
once  mentioned  her  in  her  letters  to  me  or  Milly  since  we 
returned.  I  fancy  the  girl  must  be  hurt  at  your  behavior, 
although  she  laughs  and  talks  with  everybody  who  comes 
up  to  her ;  and  upon  my  soul,  Guy,  I  really  don't  think 
you're  behaving  particularly  well  to  her.  I  know  if  a 
girl  was  as  fond  of  me  as  she  seems  of  you,  and  such  a 
pretty  girl  too,  I  don't  think  I  could  treat  her  in  the  way 
you're  doing." 

Guy's  lip  curls  a  little  as  he  reads  this ;  he  flings  the 
letter  on  one  side,  but  presently  takes  it  up  again,  and 
reads  it  twice  over  very  slowly. 

"Yes,"  he  says  presently,  to  himself,  "it  can't  go  on 
much  longer  like  this.  My  mother  and  I  must  come  to 
some  understanding.  'I  don't  think  there  is  much  love 
lost  between  the  two'  "  (taking  Adrian's  letter  up  again, 
and  reading).  "  '  I  know  Milly  has  been  infernally  cross 
with  me  lately.'  Yes,  I  suppose  Adrian  is  exercising  his 
fascinations"  (contemptuously)  "on  Dolores,  and  Milly 
is  miserable.  What  a  selfish  brute  I  am !  Well,  I  will 
delay  no  longer :  it  shall  all  be  settled  one  way  or  the 
other  this  morning.  Poor  mother ! — God  knows  I  would 
be  the  last  to  make  her  unhappy ;  but  my  first  duty  now 
is  to  the  girl  who  is  to  be  my  wife." 

Since  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  the  subject  has  never 
once  been  alluded  to  between  Lady  Wentworth  and  her 
son.  She  has  waited  for  him  to  speak,  and  he  has  not  felt 
the  courage  or  inclination.  All  day  he  has  been  employed 
riding  or  walking  about  with  his  bailiff,  and  at  night  the 
conversation  has  turned  almost  entirely  upon  the  events 
of  the  day,  or  on  his  travels.  But  this  morning,  when 
breakfast  is  over,  he  says, — 

"Mother,  may  I  come  to  your  room  presently?  I 
want  to  talk  to  you." 


320 


DOLORES. 


His  face  is  pale  and  a  little  stern,  and  her  cheek  blanches 
somewhat  as  she  answers, — 

"  By  all  means,  my  dear — you  know  I  am  always  at 
your  disposal." 

When  he  joins  her,  she  is  sitting  in  her  usual  place 
near  the  window,  her  tapestry-work  in  her  hands,  which 
tremble  a  little,  although  her  face  is  composed.  Guy 
takes  one  or  two  turns  in  the  room,  and  then,  coming  up 
suddenly,  sits  down  by  his  mother,  and  takes  her  hand. 

"  Mother,  I  think  you  know  I  would  not  willingly  vex 
or  pain  you,"  he  says,  pleadingly. 

Lady  Wentworth's  lip  trembles,  but  her  face  is  cold 
and  rigid  ;  she  does  not  reply. 

"You  know,"  he  went  on,  earnestly,  "I  have  asked — 
asked  Dolores  to  marry  me,  and  there  is  no  drawing  back 
now,  even  if  I  wished  it"  (hesitating),  "which  I  most 
certainly  do  not." 

"Why  did  you  ask  her?"  says  his  mother,  turning 
suddenly  upon  him;  "why  bring  disgrace  upon  your 
family  for  a  girl  you  do  not  love  ?  Nay,  you  need  not 
interrupt  me — you  do  not  love  her;  if  you  did,  would 
you  have  been  here  a  fortnight  without  once  going  to 
see  her  ?  The  distance  is  not  very  great ;  you  have  had 
nothing  really  to  keep  you  here;  and  I — I  have  not 
attempted  to  prevent  you  going." 

"And  yet,"  he  replies,  gently,  "  it  is  you  who  prevent 
my  going.  I  had  promised  that  you  would  receive  her, 
that  she  should  come  here  at  once;  I  told  Milly  and 
Acrian  so  too ;  but  after  the  way  in  which  you  received 
my  first  mention  of  her,  how  was  it  possible  I  could  ask 
you  to  invite  her  here?  And  to  see  her,  and  tell  the 
truth,  or  ignore  what  I  had  previously  said — I  ask  you, 
mother,  is  it  possible  ?' ' 

"I  cannot  receive  her,"  says  Lady  Wentworth,  with 


AN  INTRODUCTION. 


321 


angry  energy;  "  it  is  impossible.  When  she  is  your  wife, 
if  you  insist  on  marrying  her,  I  must  of  course  treat  her 
as  her  position  requires,  but  I  do  not  think"  (bitterly) 
"we  shall  often  meet."  Then,  relenting,  she  says, 
taking  both  his  hands,  and  with  strong  entreaty  in  her 
voice,  "  Guy,  why  do  this  foolish  thing?  I  do  not  know 
— I  cannot  imagine  what  your  motive  is ;  but  one  thing  I 
know,  it  is  not  love.  If,  as  you  say,  she  has  no  family, 
no  friends,  we  can  find  a  home  for  her;  you  can  make 
her  what  compensation  you  please ;  if  she  is  so  lovely, 
she  will  soon  find  another  husband,  and " 

Guy  starts  up  in  great  anger,  saying,  passionately, — 

"  Mother,  it  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  you  dishonor 
your  lips  with  bad  counsel;  this  is  indeed  unlike  the 
mother  whom  I  have  loved  and  honored  ever  since  I  was 
born." 

Lady  Wentworth  is  abashed  by  her  son's  words — the 
first  harsh  ones  she  has  ever  heard  from  his  lips ;  but  she 
resents  the  rebuke. 

"You  will  do  as  you  please"  (rising,  and  with  great 
haughtiness).  "  I  am  prepared  to  leave  your  house  when 
you  please — to-day,  even." 

"Forgive  me,  mother!"  cries  Guy,  whose  heart  re- 
proves him  for  having  spoken  harshly  to  his  mother, 
although  his  sense  of  honor  compelled  the  words.  "  This 
house,  you  know,  is  yours,  and  will  always  be,  as  long  as 
you  care  to  live  in  it.  But"  (pushing  her  gently  back 
into  her  chair)  "let  us  talk  together  calmly  and  quietly 
over  what  is  best  to  be  done.  You  are  quite  wrong  in 
fancying  I  do  not  love  Dolores.  She  is  a  dear,  sweet 
little  girl,  and  I  believe  firmly  that  when  you  come  to 
know  her  you  will  love  her  as  a  daughter.  Adrian's  wife 
has  done  all  in  her  power  to  make  the  best  of  what  is  bad 
in  the  matter ;  she  might  have  set  her  face  against  it,  but 
v 


322 


DOLORES. 


she  has  been  goodness  itself.  Adrian  writes  me  that 
Dolores  is  well  received.  And,  mother"  (very  earnestly), 
"  would  you  spoil  her  future  and  mine  by  showing  the 
world  that  you  disapprove  the  marriage — by  making  them 
suspect  things  which  they  will  not  if  you  open  your  arms 
to  her?" 

A  silence  falls  upon  them ;  it  is  broken  at  last  by  Lady 
Wentworth. 

"If  it  must  be  so,"  she  says,  coldly,  "I  will  do  what 
you  wish — at  all  events,  I  will  make  no  opposition.  I 
will  be  present  at  your  marriage.  I  will  not  let  the  world 
suspect  my  real  feelings.  But  do  not  ask  me  to  have  her 
here  now;  it  is  impossible.  Since  Milly"  (eying  him 
keenly)  "  has  been  already  so  kind,  why  should  Miss 
Power  not  continue  with  her  until  your  marriage?" 

"Impossible!"  (with  great  energy) — " utterly  impos- 
sible !"  (walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  great 
strides.) 

"Why  impossible?"  (quietly.) 

Another  pause. 

"Because"  (slowly)  " it  makes  Milly  unhappy.  Mother" 
(turning  impetuously  to  her),  "you  know  what  Adrian  is 
— you  know  that,  without  caring  the  least  bit  about  them, 
he  has  a  way  of  making  love  to  every  woman  he  meets. 
I  believe  he  is  doing  so  now  with  Dolores;  and  Milly" 
(with  an  effort)  "is  so  devotedly  fond  of  him  that  it 
half  breaks  her  heart  to  see  it.  I  must  get  her  away  1 
For  God's  sake,  mother,  don't  oppose  the  first  thing  I 
ever  prayed  of  you  in  my  life  !" 

Lady  Wentworth  looks  at  him  sorrowfully.  The  ugly 
suspicion  that  had  so  small  a  shape  before  is  growing  large 
and  dark.  She  sees  the  truth  as  far  as  his  feelings  for 
Milly  are  concerned,  and  it  puts  every  other  thought  out 
of  her  head.  It  is  not  so  much  the  words  that  he  has 


AN  INTRODUCTION. 


323 


spoken,  but  the  deep,  intense  emotion  she  reads  in  hi? 
eyes  and  mouth.  It  is  not  for  Dolores  he  is  entreating, 
but  for  Milly.  She  is  conquered.  Her  mother's  heart 
goes  out  to  him  in  his  trouble ;  for  she  knows  too  well  his 
strong  sense  of  honor  to  fear  any  wrong  or  harm  from  hi* 
unhappy  love.  "Perhaps,"  she  thinks,  "he  is  marrying 
this  girl  to  put  another  stronger  bar  between  himself  and 
Milly." 

There  are  tears  in  her  eyes — ay,  in  her  heart  too — as 
she  goes  to  him  and  puts  her  arm  round  his  neck. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  wish,"  she  says,  kissing  him.  "  I 
will  write  to  my  new  daughter-in-law  this  morning.  When 
do  you  wish  her  to  come  ?" 

"Oh,  mother,  really!"  he  exclaims,  unable  to  realize 
this  sudden  change.  "  God  bless  you  1  You  have  taken 
a  great  load  off  my  mind." 

He  does  not  dream  that  she  too  knows  his  secret,  and 
she  would  not  for  the  world  that  he  should. 

"  I  will  telegraph  that  I  shall  be  up  in  time  for  dinner 
to-night,  and  to-morrow — no,  the  day  after — I  will  bring 
her  back.  May  I,  mother?" 

"Yes,  my  dear.  And"  (kindly)  "you  need  not  be 
afraid  about  her  reception.  There  is  no  fear  of  her  being 
dull  here,  either,  I  dare  say,  as  you  will  be  with  her." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  she  has  been  used  to  a  dull  life,  and 
all  this  novelty  is  sufficient  excitement.  A  thousand  thanks 
again,  dearest  mother !  Why,  how  foolish  I  have  been  all 
this  time,  to  be  afraid  to  speak  to  you  !  If  there  were 
more  mothers  like  you,  I  think  there  would  be  a  good 
many  better  fellows  in  the  world — though"  (laughing) 
"  that  sounds  rather  like  a  compliment  to  myself,  doesn't 
it?  But"  (with  a  sigh),  "heaven  save  the  mark! — that 
was  the  last  thought  in  my  mind." 

A  few  hours  later  Guy  takes  leave  of  his  mother  and 


324 


DOLORES. 


starts  for  town.  He  occupies  the  journey  up  with  making 
plans  for  the  future. 

"What  a  fool  I  was,"  he  says,  over  and  over  again,  to 
himself,  "  to  feel  so  certain  that  my  mother  would  not 
come  round !  I  might  have  known  better.  I  believe 
she's  the  best  woman  in  England,  bar  none,  God  bless 
her !  Dolores  will  be  a  little  frightened  of  her  at  first,  I 
dare  say,  and  perhaps  my  mother  will  be  a  little  stiff;  but 
it  won't  last,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  gets  quite  fond 
of  her  soon — she  is  always  so  good  to  anything  young  and 

weak.  And  I well,  I  shall  take  her  about  everywhere ; 

and  no  doubt"  (sighing),  "  I  shall  be  happy  in  seeing  her 
happy.  Perhaps  she  won't  think  so  much  of  me  now  she 
has  seen  other  men.  I  hope  to  heaven  she  hasn't  fallen 
in  love  with  Adrian,  for  it  seems  as  if  no  woman  can  resist 
him.  What  the  deuce  do  they  see  in  him,  except  his  good- 
looking  face  ?  They  must  find  him  out  pretty  soon,  but 
that  doesn't  seem  to  make  any  difference." 

Guy  isn't  the  first  man  in  the  world  who  has  been  ut- 
terly at  a  loss  to  see  the  attractions  a  man  of  whom  he 
does  not  think  much  himself  has  for  women,  just  as  there 
are  women  who  find  it  impossible  to  account  for  the  charm 
a  member  of  their  own  sex,  in  whom  they  see  so  little, 
exercises  over  the  minds  of  men.  There  are  men  whom 
all  other  men  admire,  and  say,  "  Now,  if  I  were  a  woman, 
that's  the  fellow  I  should  fall  in  love  with;"  but  these  are 
not  generally  the  men  for  whom  women  care.  And  there 
are  a  few  women  universally  admired  by  their  own  sex 
who  rarely  make  any  very  great  impression  on  men. 

Guy  arranges  in  his  own  mind  that  the  marriage  shall 
take  place  very  soon.  It  is  now  May ;  well,  by  the  end 
of  June  at  latest.  And  then  they  will  go  off  in  the  yacht 
to  Norway,  and  be  back  again  in  time  for  partridge-shoot- 
ing, when  they  will  have  a  large  party  at  Wentworth. 


AN  INTRODUCTION. 


3*5 


This  happens  to  be  the  very  day  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
when  Milly  and  Doloers  are  sitting  in  the  Row,  neither 
very  happy  at  heart,  though  their  faces  are  smiling  j  and 
we  will  take  our  privilege  of  putting  the  clock  back  a  few 
hours,  and  join  them  once  more.  At  this  moment  Lord 
Heronmere  comes  up  to  Milly.  He  is  a  fair,  good-look- 
ing boy,  a  first  cousin  of  Guy  and  Adrian,  the  son  of  one 
of  Lady  Wentworth's  sisters,  and  he  and  Milly  are  great- 
friends. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Charteris,"  he  says,  coming  up  eagerly,  with 
an  unmistakably  pleased  smile,  "I'm  so  awfully  glad  to 
see  you  again  !  What  an  age  since  we  met !  Where  have 
you  been  hiding  all  this  time?" 

"  In  very  public  places,"  she  answers,  laughing.  "But 
first"  (in  a  low  voice)  "let  me  introduce  you  to  your 
new  cousin." 

The  young  fellow  ducks  his  hat,  and  as  his  eyes  light  on 
Dolores,  they  say,  unmistakably,  "  By  Jove  !  what  a  pretty 
girl!" 

Now,  with  one  exception,  Milly  is  the  least  jealous 
woman  in  the  world.  No  one  is  so  kind  and  sympathetic 
with  young  girls.  She  likes  to  see  them  admired.  She 
enjoys  their  freshness  and  pleasure  in  the  things  that 
she  too  likes,  although  she  knows  they  are  hollow,  and 
no  one  in  the  world  ever  heard  her  say  a  word  to  the 
detriment  or  detraction  of  any  girl  living.  She  is  pleased 
that  every  one  should  admire  Dolores,  save  and  except 
one  man,  and  with  her  kind  heart,  and  ready  admira- 
tion of  everything  young  and  fair,  she  would  be  the  first 
to  love  and  admire  Dolores,  if  Adrian  had  not  had  the 
same  inclination.  But  he  is  not  here  this  morning ; 
Colonel  Brooke  is  in  attendance,  and  when  she  reads 
young  Heronmere's  admiration  in  his  face,  she  is  well 
pleased. 

28 


326  DOLORES. 

"I  haven't  very  long  come  off  guard,"  he  continues, 
standing  before  them  in  the  attitude  of  the  young  British 
soldier,  with  his  hands  crossed  upon  the  umbrella  which 
supports  his  weight.  "Awful  hard  work,  the  defense  of 
one's  country.  Perhaps  Miss  Power  might  like  to  corne 
down  and  see  the  Guard  mounting  one  morning?  It's  too 
early  for  you,  I  know,  but  she  looks  as  if  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  going  to  bed  and  getting  up  early.  Beauty-sleep, 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  you  know !" 

"Thank  you,"  says  Milly,  laughing.  "And  I  dare 
say,  when  I  have  explained  to  Miss  Power  the  charms  of 
standing  in  a  flagged  yard  for  twenty  minutes,  and  under- 
going the  concentrated  fire  from  the  hundred  pairs  of  eyes 
of  your  scarlet  giants,  she  will  be  very  happy  to  accept 
your  invitation  !" 

"Now,  Mrs.  Charteris,  don't  be  so  down  on  a  fellow. 
I  only  meant  to  be  civil,  you  know;  and,  by  Jove  !  I'm 
forgetting  my  message  all  this  time.  I  went  round  to  your 
place  as  soon  as  I  got  my  uniform  off,  to  ask  you,  with  my 
mother's  love,  if  you  would  all  come  round  and  lunch  after 
the  Park?  She  only  came  to  town,  you  know,  the  day 
before  yesterday,  and  would  have  called  or  written,  but — 
but  I  forget  why — but  she  particularly  wants  you  to  come, 
and  you  will,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  think  we  shall  be  very  glad,  and"  (aside)  "I 
want  your  mother  to  see  Dolores." 

"  Dolores"  (sotto  voce],  "  what  a  jolly  name  !  At  least, 
it  isn't  exactly  jolly,  is  it?  Means  something  rather  the 
other  way,  doesn't  it?  Yes,  my  mother  wants  to  see  her 
tremendously,  and  I  think  she'll  like  her  immensely.  I'm 
sure  I  shall"  (dropping  into  the  chair  beside  Milly,  that 
some  one  has  just  vacated).  "  I  think  Guy's  a  lucky 
fellow.  I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  such  a  pretty  girl ! 
And  what  a  charming  way  she  has  of  speaking — half  for- 


AN  INTRODUCTION.  327 

eign  it  sounds  !  Is  she  English  ? — and  where  did  Guy 
meet  her?  Do  tell  me  all  about  it." 

So  for  the  fiftieth  time  Milly  tells  the  stereotyped  story, 
and,  that  being  ended,  pronounces  it  time  to  be  going. 

"  Colonel  Brooke,  I  know  you'll  do  something  for  me," 
she  says,  leaning  forward  to  speak  to  him.  "  We  are 
going  to  lunch  with  Lady  Heronmere,  and  I  have  not 
time  to  go  home  first.  Will  you  look  in  on  your  way  to 
your  club,  and  leave  word  for  Adrian  where  we  are,  and 
that  he  is  to  join  us,  if  he  has  time  ?  And  please  tell  them 
to  send  the  open  carriage  for  us  at  half-past  three." 

Colonel  Brooke  accepts  the  commission,  but  young 
Heronmere  interposes,  with  a  deference  he  would  not  feel 
for  any  one  but  his  superior  officer. 

"But,  Colonel  Brooke,  won't  you  come  too?  My 
mother  will  be  so  awfully  glad,  you  know ;  and  if  you'll 
take  charge  of  the  ladies,  I'll  run  round  myself  in  a  minute, 
and  leave  the  message." 

But  Colonel  Brooke  excuses  himself,  and  so  the  three 
proceed  to  Lady  Heronmere's  house  in  Park  Lane.  Milly 
is  wondering  what  Guy's  aunt  will  think  of  his  choice, 
for  she  is  a  very  grande  dame,  holds  a  high  place  in 
society,  and  is  vastly  particular  about  family  and  connec- 
tions. 

But  if  Lady  Heronmere  is  all  this,  she  is,  at  the  same 
time,  a  capricious  woman,  given  to  take  enormous  fancies ; 
and  Mrs.  Charteris  is  perfectly  aware  that  if  good  fortune 
will  only  permit  Dolores  to  seem  pleasing  in  her  eyes, 
there  will  be  nothing  left  for  the  world  to  say  to  her  preju- 
dice. 

And  in  this  case  Fortune  is  propitious,  for  Lady  Heron- 
mere  is  vastly  taken  with  the  girl,  and  there  and  then 
invites  her  to  come  on  the  following  day  and  spend  a  week 
with  her,  thereby  giving  great  satisfaction  to  Reginald 


328  DOLORES. 

Viscount  Heronmere,  and  taking  no  light  load  off  Milly's 
breast. 

"  Of  course,"  Lady  Heronmere  whispers  aside  to  Mrs. 
Charteris,  "one  would  wish  to  know  a  little  more  about 
her  antecedents ;  but  one  thing  is  providential :  and  that 
is,  that  she  has  no  relations.  She  is  a  most  charming 
little  creature;  her  manners  are  perfect,  and  that  little 
shyness  and  constant  blush  are  perfectly  ravishing.  She 
will  be  an  immense  success  next  year  as  Guy's  wife.  I 
shall  present  her  myself.  If  she  belonged  to  one  of  our 
best  families,  she  could  not  be  better  bred."' 

So  Dolores  is  received  by  the  most  important  member 
of  the  family,  and  Milly,  in  her  heart,  thanks  heaven 
devoutly  that  the  same  roof  will  no  longer,  for  the  time  at 
least,  cover  her  and  Adrian. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

LORD   HERONMERE   FALLS   IN   LOVE. 

WHEN  Dolores  reaches  home,  and  Sir  Guy's  telegram  is 
put  into  her  hands,  she  trembles,  and  turns  very  white- 
it  is  the  first  she  has  ever  received.  "  Oh,  if  he  should  be 
dead !"  she  thinks. 

"  Do  not  be  so  frightened,  my  dear,"  says  Milly,  gayly : 
"  it  is  most  likely  to  tell  you  that  Guy  will  be  here  to 
dinner  to-night." 

As  Dolores  opens  it,  and  reads  the  corroboration  of 
Mrs.  Charteris's  words,  a  lovely  blush  overspreads  her 
face,  and  she  looks  radiant  with  joy. 

She  bounds  up-stairs  to  Marcelline. 


LORD  HERONMERE  FALLS  IN  LOVE. 


329 


"  Tiens!  tiens!"  says  that  shrewd  person ;  "Sir  Ghi  has 
arrived?" 

"Not  arrived,  but  in  half  an  hour  he  will  be  here. 
And  they  dine  out,  so  I  shall  have  him  all  to  myself. 
Marcelline,  make  me  beautiful,  dress  me  all,  all  in  white, 
as  he  likes  to  see  me ;  and  I  will  put  on  the  pearl  neck- 
lace he  gave  me,  and  the  pearl  locket  he  sent  me  long  ago 
at  Rouen." 

Marcellir.e  remarks  dryly  that  it  is  quite  time  Sir  Guy 
arrives — he  has  been  long  away. 

"But  if  his  affairs  demanded  it?"  asks  Mademoiselle, 
imperiously. 

Marcelline  says  apologetically  that  if  he  stayed  away 
too  long  he  might  come  to  be  forgotten. 

"/forget  him.'"  cries  the  girl,  in  such  a  tone,  and 
with  so  radiant  a  face,  the  greatest  skeptic  in  true  love 
could  not  have  doubted  her  for  an  instant. 

She  proceeds  to  array  herself  in  one  of  those  charming 
toilettes  that  Milly's  taste  selected  for  her  in  Paris ;  and 
when  she  is  dressed  she  looks  at  herself  in  the  long  glass. 
In  her  whole  apparel  there  is  not  a  vestige  of  anything 
but  white,  and,  little  vain  though  she  is,  she  cannot  help 
seeing  that  she  is  fair. 

"Like  a  little  angel  just  flown  from  heaven!"  Mar- 
celline declares,  putting  a  finishing  touch  with  loving 
hands.  "  There  is  nothing  wanting  but  the  wings." 

"And  the  goodness,"  says  the  child,  shyly. 

"  Ah  !  pour  fa,"  Marcelline  returns,  with  a  shrug ;  "it 
would,  after  all,  be  very  tiresome  to  live  with  people  who 
were  always  so  good." 

When  Guy  is  ushered  into  the  drawing-room,  and  sees 
this  lovely  little  apparition,  he  is  almost  confounded  by 
its  loveliness.  He  makes  a  step  towards  her,  and  then, 
feeling  so  dusty  and  travel-stained,  he  hesitates. 

28* 


330 


DOLORES. 


"  Why,  you  little  fairy,"  he  says,  with  a  look  of  genuine 
pride  and  pleasure,  "you  look  so  ethereal  I  am  afraid  to 
touch  you  in  my  present  state." 

"Do  not  be,"  she  answers,  with  the  loveliest  little 
blush,  and  coming  forward  a  step. 

Thereupon  he  makes  no  further  ado,  but  takes  her  in 
his  arms  and  kisses  her  with  no  feigned  fondness. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  spoilt  your  gown,"  he  says,  in  some 
trepidation,  as  he  releases  her. 

"What  matters  my  gown,"  she  replies,  with  some  con- 
tempt, "if  you  are  pleased  to  see  me  once  more.  Are 
you  pleased?" 

Guy  makes  the  practical  answer  the  question  demands, 
and  a  moment  later  Milly  enters  the  room.  She  is  en 
grande  toilette ;  and  while  Guy  makes  his  greetings,  the 
woman  and  the  girl  survey  each  other. 

"How  elegant  she  is  !"  thinks  Dolores,  her  pride  and 
pleasure  in  her  own  apparel  taking  wings. 

"  How  fair  and  young  and  fresh  she  is  1"  thinks  Milly; 
"and  how  old  and  worn  I  must  look  beside  her." 

"What  magnificence  !"  utters  Guy,  smiling.  "  Where 
are  you  all  going?  I  fear  I  have  come  at  the  wrong 
moment." 

"  No,  indeed.  Adrian  and  I  are  obliged  to  go  to  one 

of  Lady  B 's  stupid  dinners,  and  we  were  going  to  be 

rude  enough  to  leave  Dolores  alone ;  but  now  everything 
has  happened  just  right,  and  you  will  have  a  charming 
little  tete-d-tete  dinner." 

"  Well,  I  must  be  off  to  dress.  My  hansom  is  at  the 
door.  I  shall  be  back  in  half  an  hour." 

So  the  two  women  are  left  to  make  each  other  compli- 
ments on  their  appearance,  and  talk  generalities,  until  the 
brougham  comes  to  the  door;  and  Adrian,  having  been 
sent  for  twice,  makes  his  appearance. 


LORD   HERONMERE  FALLS  IN  LOVE, 


33* 


"We  shall  be  late,  Adrian,"  says  his  wife;  "and  you 
know  how  particular  Lady  B  is." 

"  Confound  her !"  replies  Adrian,  with  his  accustomed 
languor;  "what  the  deuce  does  she  mean  by  dining  at 
such  an  un-Christian  hour  as  half-past  seven  ?  I  say,  my 
dear  little  sister-in-law,  how  lovely  you  look  to-night !  Is 
it  happiness  or  your  white  gown?  Milly,  why  don't  you 
get  a  gown  like  that  ?' ' 

"Because  I  am  several  years  older  than  Dolores,"  she 
returns,  dryly. 

"True,"  yawns  Adrian;  "it  wants  youth  and  inno- 
cence." 

"It  is  time  we  were  going"  (impatiently). 

"  I  must  have  another  look  at  this  little  angel,  if  the 
old  lady  sits  down  to  dinner  without  us,"  he  answers, 
languidly.  Then,  with  more  enthusiasm,  "'Pon  my  soul, 
I  think  Guy's  the  luckiest  man  in  London  to-night. 
Sweet  little  sister,  I've  never  been  so  indiscreet  before. 
Let  me  salute  you  just  this  once." 

And,  so  saying,  he  stoops  his  handsome  head,  and 
orushes  her  cheek  with  his  fair  moustache. 

At  this  precise  moment  Guy  enters.  He  sees  Milly 
crimson,  with  tears  starting  in  her  eyes ;  and  it  does  not 
make  his  greeting  to  his  brother  more  cordial. 

"  Don't  look  so  savage,  my  dear  fellow  !"  says  Adrian, 
quite  unabashed  ;  "  you  may  kiss  Milly,  if  you  like.  I'm 
all  for  family  affection  myself.  Well,  now  we'll  be  off. 
Come,  Milly.  I  wish  to  heaven  you'd  keep  that  con- 
founded train  of  yours  from  under  one's  feet"  (this  as  he 
stumbles  over  it). 

Guy  looks  a  little  glum,  and  goes  to  the  window. 
Presently  a  little  white  hand  steals  under  his  arm,  and 
the  prettiest  face  in  the  world  looks  wistfully  up  at  him. 

"You  are  not  angry,  Guy?" 


332 


DOLORES. 


"Not  angry,"  he  answers,  in  rather  a  lecturing  tone, 
"  but  I  should  like  to  see  you  have  a  little  more  dignity." 

"Do  you  think  /care  about  him?"  (indignantly) — 
"do  you  think  /want  him  to  kiss  me?  It  was  only  be- 
cause he  is  your  brother  that  I  permitted  it." 

"Does  he  often  take  advantage  of  his  coming  rela- 
tionship to  bestow  his  brotherly  affection  upon  you?" 
(bitterly). 

"Never — never  in  his  life  before.  And  now"  (tremu- 
lously) "that  you  have  just  come  back,  after  being  all 
this  time  away,  you  are  going  to  be  angry  with  me !" 

"No,  indeed,"  putting  his  arm  round  her,  and  as 
suddenly  withdrawing  it,  as  the  door  opens,  and  the 
butler  announces  dinner. 

When  Guy  hears  the  events  of  the  day,  he  is  genuinely 
pleased.  In  the  first  place,  his  mother  will  undoubtedly 
be  biased  by  her  sister's  approval  of  Dolores,  as  will  also 
the  rest  of  the  world,  and  the  visit  to  Lady  Heronmere 
will  give  Lady  Wentworth  more  time  to  get  accustomed 
to  the  thought  of  receiving  her. 

"And  how  do  you  like  my  aunt?"  he  asks. 

"Oh,  so  much! — she  was  kindness  itself.  I  had  ex- 
pected to  be  a  little  afraid  of  her,  but  that  all  vanished 
the  moment  she  spoke  to  me." 

"And  how  do  you  like  Heronmere?" 

"Your  cousin?     He  is  a  most  amusing  boy." 

"  Boy  ! — what  an  indignity  for  a  young  Guardsman  !" 

"Oh,  but  he  is  quite,  quite  a  boy,  and  so  full  of  fun ! 
He  will  be  handsome,  too,  I  think,  when  he  gets  older, 
and  the  little  fluffy  moustache  grows. ' ' 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  my  dear  child,  don't  tell  him  so ! 
The  pride  of  his  life  is  that  little  fluffy  moustache,  as  you 
call  it." 

"  And  he  wants  me  to  go  and  see  his  Guards  mounting, 


LORD  HERONMERE  FALLS  IN  LOVE. 


333 


though  I  cannot  understand  what  they  do,  since  Mrs 
Charteris  says  it  all  happens  in  a  sort  of  court-yard." 

"I  think  you  and  Heronmere  have  been  flirting," 
laughs  Guy.  "  He  is  a  dangerous  young  fellow — all  the 
women  make  a  pet  of  him." 

"Dangerous! — such  a  child!"  retorts  Dolores,  with 
some  contempt,  at  which  Guy  is  more  amused  still. 

"I  shall  have  to  stop  in  town  to  look  after  you,"  he 
says ;  "and  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  send  for  my  phaeton, 
and  drive  you  out  in  the  morning — of  course  my  aunt 
will  monopolize  you  in  the  afternoon.  I  wonder  whether 
she  will  let  me  take  you  to  the  theatre  in  the  evening, 
when  she  goes  out  to  her  big  entertainments  ?  I  suppose 
that  won't  be  etiquette,  though." 

"  Etiquette  ! — what  is  that?" 

"Something  that  you  will  very  soon  understand,  and 
find  a  very  great  bore,  too." 

The  next  day  Dolores  is  duly  installed  in  Park  Lane, 
where  she  spends  ten  days  of  almost  unalloyed  happiness. 
Lady  Heronmere  is  kindness  itself.  Guy  is  nearly  always 
with  her,  and  as  for  Lord  Heronmere,  his  one  object  in 
life  seems  to  be  to  devote  himself  slavishly  to  her  amuse- 
ment, and  it  is  easy  to  see  that  he  is  fast  falling  hopelessly 
in  love  with  his  pretty  little  cousin  who  is  to  be.  Dolores 
orders  him  about  in  a  patronizing,  imperious  way,  that  he 
considers  adorable,  and  that  immensely  amuses  his  mother 
and  Guy. 

When  inexorable  Fate,  and  a  sense  of  the  proprieties, 
compel  the  poor  young  fellow  to  leave  her  alone  with  his 
rival  (as  in  his  heart  he  considers  Guy),  he  wanders  aim- 
lessly and  moodily  about  the  house,  generally  taking 
refuge  in  the  room  where  the  housekeeper,  formerly  his 
nurse,  and  who  still  adores  him,  sits  in  company  with  his 
mother's  maid  and  Marcelline.  He  and  the  latter  are 


334  DOLORES. 

tremendous  friends,  although  their  conversation  is  lins 
ited,  owing  to  the  difficulty  each  has  in  making  the  other 
understand.  For  Viscount  Heronmere,  although  he  was 
educated  at  Eton,  and  went  abroad  for  a  short  tour, 
previous  to  joining  the  Guards,  is  by  no  means  an  adept 
at  languages,  and  has  not  taken  the  slightest  pains  to  cul- 
tivate them.  He  speaks  French  with  the  purest  British 
accent,  and  translates  his  sentences  entirely  from  the 
English ;  and,  as  he  is  frequently  at  a  loss  for  words  when 
he  pays  a  visit  to  Marcelline,  he  takes  with  him  a  small 
French  dictionary.  One  particular  afternoon  he  has  lin- 
gered rather  long  with  the  lovers,  and  is  obliged  to  see 
at  last  that  Dolores  is  getting  pettish  at  his  continued 
presence,  so  he  betakes  himself  dolorously  to  the  apart- 
ment which  is  at  that  moment  occupied  by  Mrs.  Bellamy, 
the  housekeeper,  and  Marcelline.  He  greets  his  former 
nurse  with  a  warm  slap  on  the  shoulder,  which  makes  her 
jump  up  and  cry, — 

"  Oh,  my  lord,  how  you  do  startle  one  !" 

"  Comment  vous  portez-vous  aujourd'hui,  Madame 
Marcelline?"  says  my  lord,  in  his  sweet  British  accent. 
"Je  suis  oblige  de  venir  ici  parceque,  parceque" — 
"they're  always  spooning  in  the  drawing-room,"  he 
wants  to  say,  but  the  difficulty  of  translating  the  sentence 
prevents  his  getting  any  further.  He  has  recourse  to  his 
dictionary,  and  finds  the  verb  to  spoon  translated  mettre 
d  sec ;  but  that  doesn't  sound  like  what  he  wants,  so  he 
tries  back.  "  Mademoiselle  Dolores,  vous  savez,  et  mon 
cousin — moi  je  suis  de  trop." 

"Ah  oui !  je  comprends,  milor,"  replies  Marcelline, 
nodding  her  head  sagaciously,  and  smiling. 

"  There,  you  see,  Bellamy,"  utters  the  young  man,  dole- 
fully, "she  understands  that  I'm  in  the  way.  I  never 
used  to  be  in  people's  way." 


LORD  HERONMERE  FALLS  IN  LOVE.        335 

"  And  whose  way  are  you  in  now,  pray,  my  lord,  I 
should  like  to  know?"  queries  Mrs.  Bellamy,  warmly. 

"Oh,  that  confounded  pair  of  spoons,  Guy  and  Miss 
Power." 

"  Oh,  well,  my  lord,"  says  his  old  nurse,  apologetically, 
"lovers  will  be  lovers,  you  know." 

"Yes,  worse  luck  to  them,  I  suppose  they  will,"  says 
the  young  man,  moodily;  "  but  now,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  Bellamy,  doesn't  it  seem  absurd  that  people 
who  are  going  to  bore  each  other  to  death,  and  probably 
quarrel  all  the  rest  of  their  lives,  must  be  always  wanting 
to  be  left  alone  together  ?  It  seems  such  a  silly,  unreason- 
able thing  to  me." 

"I  dare  say  it  won't,  my  dear,  when  it's  your  turn," 
responds  Bellamy,  dryly.  "  But  that  won't  come  just  yet, 
I  doubt." 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  it  was  here  now,  and  I  was  going  to 
marry  that  little  darling  !"  cries  my  lord ;  at  which  Mrs. 
Bellamy  looks  shocked,  and  says, — 

"  Oh,  my  lord,  you  mustn't  talk  like  that ;  why,  they're 
a' most  as  good  as  man  and  wife  now." 

"Many  a  slip,  you  know,  my  dear  old  Bell;  and  if 
anything  should  happen,  hang  me  if  I  don't  cut  in,  as 
sure  as  my  name  is  Reginald  Hubert  St.  Vincent  Gower 
Heronmere.  I  say,  Marcelline,  pourquoi  le  deuce  ne 
parle  pas  tout  le  monde  la  meme  langage.  J'ai"  (a 
pause,  while  he  consults  the  dictionary)  "  un  mille — 
choses  de  dire  a  vous.  Votre  jeune  demoiselle  est  le  plus 
joli  que  j'ai  vue  dans  tout  ma  vie"  (Marcelline  nods  en- 
couragingly);  "et  je  ne  crois  pas  que  mon  cousin  est  a 
demi  assez  bon  pour  elle.  Not  but  what  he's  a  thundering 
good  fellow,  you  know — but — oh,  hang  it  all,  I  can't  say 
that  in  French." 

"Why,  my  lord,"  interposes  Bellamy,  "I  should  ha' 


336  DOLORES, 

thought,  the  time  you  was  abroad,  you'd  a'  had  all  the 
foreign  languages  at  your  fingers'  ends." 

"Would  you?  Then  permit  me  to  tell  you,  with  all 
due  deference,  Mrs.  Bellamy,  that  you're  a  stupid  old 
donkey  !  Some  fellows  are  clever  in  one  way,  and  some 
in  another.  If  I  can't  speak  French  and  German,  permit 
me  to  tell  you  that  I  can  ride,  cricket,  and  dance  with 
most  fellows  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  I  won't  say 
so  much  about  my  shooting,  though  I  have  before  now 
wiped  the  eye  of  a  crack  shot ;  and  perhaps,  considering 
my  youth  and  inexperience,  I  can  tool  a  team  up  Gros- 
venor  Place,  into  the  Park,  and  out  at  the  Albert  Gate 
again,  as  well  as  most  fellows.  Not  that  I  should  have 
reminded  you"  (with  mock  modesty)  "of  my  little  ac- 
complishments, only  that  you  seem  to  take  a  somewhat 
disparaging  view  of  them." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  my  lord — far  from  it ;  but  I  thought,  as 
my  lady  spoke  it  so  beautifully,  you'd  mayhap  do  the 
same." 

"  Languages  don't  run  in  families,  my  dear  old  woman. 
I  say,  Marcelline,  est-ce  que  mon  cousin  parle  Fran£aise 
bien?" 

"O  si,  tres-bien,  milor,"  replies  Marcelline. 

"  Hang  him  !"  returns  Milor.  "  By  the  way,  I  wonder 
what's  the  French  for  that?  I  suppose  it's  an  idiom. 
And  what's  to  fall  in  love? — Tomber  en  amour?  That 
don't  sound  right.  Est-ce  que  Mademoiselle  Power  aime 
beaucoup  mon  cousin  ?' ' 

Marcelline  believed  well  that  the  dear  young  lady  loved 
him,  and  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  as  he  was  so  hand- 
some and  distinguished. 

"H'm!"  replies  the  young  viscount,  not  particularly 
charmed  at  this  panegyric. 

So  he  changes  the  subject,  and  inquires  how  she  likes 


LORD  HERONMERE  FALLS  IN  LOVE.        337 

Eagland,  and  whether  she  means  always  to  live  there;  to 
which  Marcelline  replies  by  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  and 
a  remark  that  it  will  be  as  the  bon  Dieu  pleases. 

It  would  be  strange  indeed  if  Dolores  did  not  enjoy  her 
new  life :  there  was  everything  to  make  her  happy  during 
her  ten  days'  visit  in  Park  Lane,  and  not  a  single  draw- 
back. Guy  was  the  most  thoughtful  and  attentive  of  lovers. 
If  people  had  wondered  a  little  before  at  his  neglect  of 
his  lovely  little  fiancee,  they  had  no  cause  for  remark  now. 
Every  morning  he  drove  her  in  his  phaeton,  or  walked 
with  her  in  the  Row.  He  lunched  regularly  in  Park 
Lane,  and  sometimes,  in  the  afternoon,  occupied  the 
third  seat  of  his  aunt's  barouche.  He  was  frequently  to 
be  seen  in  Lady  Heronmere's  opera-box,  and,  on  those 
evenings  when  she  dined  out,  always  took  Dolores  to  the 
theatre,  under  the  chaperonage  of  Miss  Frost,  his  aunt's 
companion,  supplemented  by  that  of  his  young  cousin. 
There  is  no  greater  incentive  to  a  man's  valuing  his  own 
property  than  seeing  it  admired  by  others  ;  and  Guy  was 
getting  very  proud  of  Dolores,  and  really  beginning  to 
think  he  possessed  a  treasure,  when  every  second  man  of 
his  friends  said,  "  I  say,  Wentworth,  who  is  that  lovely 
girl  you're  with?"  or,  "Wentworth,  who  is  that  charm- 
ing creature  I  saw  in  Lady  Heronmere's  carriage  this 
afternoon  ?" 

It  gave  Guy  a  pleasurable  sensation  to  answer, — 
"  She  is  Miss  Power,  and  I  am  going  to  marry  her." 
One  evening  Lady  Heronmere  gave  a  dinner-party,  and 
introduced  Dolores  formally  to  several  of  her  distinguished 
fi  iends;  and  Dolores,  though  very  shy  and  nervous,  sang 
two  or  three  plaintive  little  French  songs.     She  had  a 
sweet,  pathetic  voice,  and  every  one  was  charmed.    Lord 
Heronmere  hung  about  the  piano  until  Dolores  despot- 
ically sent  him  away,  and  then  he  proceeded  dismally  to 
w  29 


338  DOLORES. 

a  distant  corner,  whence  he  eyed  her  with  a  melancholy 
admiration. 

"  My  dear  Regy,"  says  his  mother  one  morning,  laugh- 
ing, "  it  will  never  do  for  you  to  be  falling  in  love  with 
Dolores — I  am  sure  any  one  can  read  your  sad  complaint 
in  your  face; — Guy  will  be  getting  jealous." 

"Not  he,"  returns  the  young  fellow,  glumly  j  "he 
knows  a  deuced  sight  too  well  that  she's  head  over  ears 
in  love  with  him.  Between  you  and  me,  mother,  I  don't 
believe  he  cares  so  very  much  for  her.  I  wish  to  heaven 
he'd  fall  desperately  in  love  with  some  other  woman,  and 
then  I  might  console  this  one.  I  say,  mother,  could  you 
not  ask  some  very  pretty  young  woman  here  to  seduce 
Guy's  affections?" 

"  You  goose  !"  says  his  mother — "  don't  you  know  Guy 
is  the  soul  of  honor?  He  would  not  think  it  right  to  look 
at  another  woman  now." 

"But  if  we  could  persuade  him  it  would  be  for  her 
good,  you  know,  mother,  because  I  am  a  better  match 
than  he  is  any  day." 

"You  silly  boy ! — do  you  think  I  should  allow  you  to 
throw  yourself  away  so  ?  She  is  a  dear,  charming  little 
thing,  but  you  will  please  to  look  a  good  deal  higher  for 
my  daughter-in-law." 

"Higher  be  hanged!"  retorts  Viscount  Heronmere. 
"Lay  you  twelve  to  two,  mother,  you  don't  find  a  duke's 
daughter  in  the  three  kingdoms  to  match  her  for  looks 
and  breeding.  It's  no  good — I  am  in  love  with  her — 
awfully  in  love  with  her.  She  isn't  his  wife  yet,  and  if  I 
thought  there  was  any  chance  of  cutting  Guy  out,  which, 
worse  luck,  I  don't,  hang  me  if  I  wouldn't  try  !" 

So  Lady  Heronmere,  although  she  is  only  amused,  and 
sees  no  danger  whatever  in  her  son's  admiration  foi 
Dolores,  does  not  consider  it  expedient  to  invite  her  to 


LORD  HERONMERE  FALLS  IN  LOVE. 


339 


prolong  her  visit  beyond  ten  days ;  but  she  makes  Guy 
promise  to  bring  his  wife  into  Yorkshire  in  the  autumn. 

Guy  does  not  feel  the  slightest  pang  of  jealousy  about 
his  young  cousin.  To  him  he  is  only  the  boy  he  used  to 
tip  at  Eton,  and  mount  at  Wentworth  in  the  Christmas 
holidays,  when  he  used  to  ride  so  pluckily  to  hounds. 
He  laughingly  rallies  Dolores  on  her  conquest. 

"You  would  make  a  pretty  little  couple,"  he  says; 
"  and  you  know,  my  dear,  you'd  be  a  much  greater  swell 
as  Lady  Heronmere  than  as  Lady  Wentworth." 

To  his  surprise,  she  does  not  take  his  remark  as  he  in- 
tends it. 

"I  dare  say  you  would  prefer  it,"  she  says,  in  a  hurt 
tone,  and  taking  up  a  book  to  hide  her  emotion.  But 
a  tear  falls  upon  the  page. 

"  My  darling,  what  do  you  mean?"  cries  Guy,  putting 
his  arm  round  her.  "  Why,  I  would  not  give  you  up  for 
the  world." 

"  Would  you  not,  really?"  (smiling  through  her  tears), 
and  he  renews  his  assurance.  "And  you,"  cries  the  girl, 
with  kindling  eyes,  putting  her  little  hand  in  his — "if 
you,  instead  of  being  rich,  and  a  grand  seigneur,  were  to 
be  quite — quite  poor  to-morrow,  and  had  to  work  hard  to 
gain  your  bread,  I  would  not  change  you  for  all  the  lords 
in  the  world — no,  not  if  they  prayed  me  on  their  knees — 
that  is"  (wistfully),  "if  you  cared  to  have  me." 

Guy  is  touched. 

"You  are  a  little  darling!"  he  says,  "and  I  am  not 
half  good  enough  for  you." 


340  DOLORES. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

THE   SUN   SHINES. 

THE  marriage  is  to  take  place  at  the  end  of  June. 
Dolores  is  to  spend  a  little  time  at  Wentworth,  and  Lady 
Wentworth  is  then  to  bring  her  to  London,  to  make  final 
arrangements  about  the  trousseau  and  wedding.  Lady 
Heronmere  has  volunteered  to  give  the  breakfast.  The 
favor  with  which  her  sister  has  received  Dolores  has  gone 
a  very  long  way  towards  reconciling  Guy's  mother  to  the 
marriage,  but  she  still  looks  with  feelings  quite  unakin  to 
pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  receiving  the  girl  at  Went- 
worth, and  having  to  depart  so  far  from  her  habit  of  life 
as  to  stay  in  London  for  any  time  in  the  season.  But 
throughout  her  life  Lady  Wentworth  has  always  been 
guided  by  a  strong  sense  of  duty,  and  now  that  she  has 
discovered  her  son's  secret,  she  feels  bound,  at  whatever 
cost  to  herself,  to  keep  him  from  suffering  and  temptation. 
For  she  regards  it  as  a  terrible  sin  to  love  the  wife  of 
another  man,  even  when  there  is  no  guilt  in  the  heart  of 
him  who  loves,  and  even  when  the  love  is,  as  now,  un- 
shared by  the  woman  to  whom  it  is  given. 

The  day  arrives,  and  Dolores  leaves  Lady  Heronmere' s 
house  to  visit  the  home  that  is  to  be  hers  in  the  future. 
She  is  full  of  joyous  anticipation,  not  altogether  unmixed 
with  a  certain  dread  of  meeting  Lady  Wentworth.  She 
has  received  the  kindest  letter  from  her,  and  Guy  has  as- 
sured her  a  thousand  times  that  she  has  nothing  to  fear ; 
but  she  knows  in  her  heart  that  his  mother  is  not  pleased 
with  the  marriage  Else  why  did  she  let  so  long  a  time 


THE  SUN  SHINES.  341 

elapse  without  sending  her  either  letter  or  message  ?  But 
Guy  will  be  there,  and  he  is  all  in  all  to  her ;  whom  and 
what  would  she  not  face  with  him  ?  Every  day  her  love 
for  him  grows  greater  and  deeper ;  it  is  so  transparent  no 
one  can  help  seeing  it.  Relieved  from  the  presence  of 
Milly,  she  has  no  more  jealous  fear — her  life  is  a  succession 
of  pleasures. 

This  new  existence,  in  which  every  one  fetes  and  pets 
her,  in  which  she  sees  and  mixes  in  the  gayeties  and 
pleasures  of  the  world,  seems  to  come  upon  her  like  a 
glimpse  of  Paradise,  after  the  long  dull  years  of  her 
childhood,  whose  monotony  had  only  been  broken  by 
pain.  She  shudders  at  the  remembrance  of  it. 

"If,"  she  thinks,  "after  all  this  happiness,  I  should 
have  to  go  back  again  to  that  ?" 

She  has  become  a  different  being,  full  of  sprightly 
grace;  radiant  with  happiness,  more  confident  in  herself, 
since  all  she  says  and  does  seems  to  please  those  around 
her;  and  altogether  Guy  cannot  help  feeling  things 
have  turned  out  better  than  he  could  have  imagined  in 
his  wildest  dreams,  and  that,  after  all,  fortune  has  not 
treated  him  so  cruelly.  Lady  Heronmere  is  exceedingly 
loth  to  part  with  Dolores ;  her  son  is  in  absolute  despair. 

"I  suppose  you'll  ask  me  sometimes  to  Wentworth?" 
he  says,  gloomily,  to  Guy,  as  he  wishes  him  good-by. 

His  cousin  gives  him  a  hearty  slap  on  the  shoulder, 
and  answers,  laughing, — 

"  I  think  you  always  came  pretty  much  as  you  liked 
before,  my  dear  fellow,  and  I  don't  see  anything  to  hinder 
your  doing  so  in  future." 

"That's  his  cursed  confidence!"  reflects  the  young 
man,  dismally  :  "he  doesn't  feel  the  least  afraid  of  me ; 
he  knows  she's  so  fond  of  him." 

Guy's  feeling  for  Dolores  is  of  the  calmest  kind  ;  there 
.  29* 


342  DOLORES. 

is  no  passion  in  it — it  is  rather  a  sense  of  protection  and 
patronage.  She  young,  and  fair,  and  weak,  therefore  he 
is  pleased  to  shelter  her  in  his  strength ;  she  has  nothing, 
so  he  likes  to  shower  riches  and  pleasure  upon  her.  It  is 
pleasant  to  him  to  know  that  she  loves  him,  but  that  very 
security  he  feels  in  her  love  takes  away  its  value.  It  is 
the  old  story : 

"  Damon  pursues  when  Cynthia  flies, 
But  when  her  love  is  born,  his  dies." 

He  can  never  forget  for  a  moment  that  he  is  making  a 
great  sacrifice  for  her,  and  that  renders  him  all  the  more 
anxious  to  pay  her  every  attention  and  consideration, 
that  she  may  not  divine  his  feeling.  He  wants  her  to  see 
the  home  he  is  bringing  her  to  under  the  most  favorable 
auspices,  so  he  has  ordered  his  coach  to  meet  them  at  the 
station,  and  makes  a  devour  in  the  drive  to  show  her 
Wentworth  Court  from  the  prettiest  point  of  view.  All 
this  is  in  the  very  furthest  removed  from  a  desire  to  im- 
press her  with  his  own  importance ;  his  sole  thought  is 
to  make  everything  as  bright  and  desirable  as  possible  in 
her  eyes.  She  is  perfectly  delighted  when  she  is  perched 
up  on  the  box-seat  beside  him,  and  after  a  little  capering, 
at  first,  which  somewhat  terrified  her,  the  thoroughbreds 
have  settled  down  into  a  steady  trot.  It  is  a  lovely  May 
afternoon,  the  country  is  looking  its  greenest  and  love- 
liest, and  the  spot  in  which  Guy's  house  is  situated  will 
bear  comparison  with  most  English  scenery. 

Dolores  is  in  ecstasies.  Every  moment  her  pretty 
mouth  is  opened  in  fresh  wonder  and  admiration.  She 
wants  to  appeal  to  Marcelline  for  sympathy,  but  that 
worthy  person  is  safe  inside,  not  much  less  gratified  with 
the  dignity  of  her  position  than  her  young  lady. 

"  Oh,  what  a  lovely  chateau  !"  cries  the  girl,  suddenly, 


THE  SUN  SHINES. 


343 


as,  at  a  turn,  they  come  in  sight  of  Wentworth,  from  its 
most  picturesque  point  of  view. 

"That  is  Wentworth." 

"  Not  really ! — not  your  house  !"  she  cries,  in  so  incred- 
ulous a  voice  that  Guy  cannot  help  laughing. 

"Why  not?"  he  asks. 

Looking  at  her,  he  sees,  to  his  surprise,  the  color  mount 
to  her  cheeks,  and  the  tears  to  her  eyes. 

"  Why,  little  one,"  he  says,  tenderly,  shifting  the  reins 
to  his  right  hand,  and  putting  the  other  on  hers,  "  what 
is  it?" 

She  turns  her  head  away,  that  he  may  not  see  the  tears 
which  are  falling  now.  A  keen  and  sudden  pang  has 
shot  through  her  heart  at  sight  of  his  house  and  lands. 
She  seems  to  see  for  the  first  time  the  enormity  of  the 
sacrifice  he  has  made  for  her.  If  it  had  been  from  love  of 
her,  it  would  have  made  her  all  the  more  glad  and  proud ; 
but  it  was  from  pity,  and  the  remembrance  stings  her  to  the 
quick. 

"My  darling,"  Guy  exclaims,  more  tenderly  than  he 
has  ever  spoken  to  her  before,  "what  is  this?  —  what 
pains  you?" 

"If  I  had  known,"  she  says,  in  a  low  voice,  through 
her  tears,  "  I  would  have  run  away  and  hidden  myself 
from  you  in  Paris  !  I  who  am  so  poor,  what  have  I  to 
give  you,  who  are  so  great  and  rich?" 

"  You  silly  little  child  !"  he  answers,  pressing  her  hand. 
"  I  am  not  at  all  great  and  rich.  There  are  half  a  dozen 
houses  in  the  county,  and  hundreds  in  England,  much 
better  than  mine.  You  won't  think  much  of  it  by-and- 
by,  when  you  have  seen  the  others.  And"  (kindly)  " if 
it  were  ten  times  better,  it  would  not  be  too  good  for  you. 
Why"  (laughing)  "  Heronmere's  place  is  three  times  as 
big  as  this,  and  I  am  quite  sure  you  might  be  mistress 


344 


DOLORES. 


there,  if  you  liked  to  give  me  up.  I  see  you  don't  know 
yet  the  value  of  a  pretty  face,  and  what  it  can  command  ; 
and"  (gayly)  "  I  am  not  going  to  enlighten  you  too  much, 
or  you  will  begin  to  think  you  are  throwing  yourself  away 
on  me." 

"Ah,"  she  says,  the  smiles  shining  through  her  tears, 
•'I  wish  you  might  become  poor  to-morrow,  so  that  you 
might  see " 

"Thanks"  (laughing).  "Flattering  as  the  test  might 
be,  I  don't  at  all  want  you  to  be  put  to  it." 

Certainly,  from  the  spot  whence  they  are  regarding  it, 
Wentworth  Court  is  a  very  handsome  and  imposing  pile 
of  buildings.  The  principal  part  of  the  structure  is  old, 
but  it  has  been  added  to  at  various  times — always  pic- 
turesquely and  in  good  taste.  From  here  you  catch  the 
terraced  walks,  green  slopes,  the  innumerable  flower- 
beds, that  in  another  month  will  be  like  a  kaleidoscope, 
and  the  great  clear  sheet  of  water  shimmering  in  the  sun. 
Dolores,  who  has  seen  so  little,  may  well  be  impressed. 
They  have  driven  through  the  two  lodge-gates,  and  up 
the  half-mile  of  park  to  the  house,  and  the  girl  is  begin- 
ning to  feel  very  nervous  about  the  coming  meeting. 
They  drive  up  to  the  door,  half  a  dozen  servants  come 
bustling  out,  and  when  Guy  has  lifted  Dolores  down,  she 
sees  a  stately  but  kind-looking  lady  awaiting  her  in  the 
doorway. 

"Welcome,  my  dear,"  she  says,  very  kindly,  kissing 
her  on  both  cheeks,  and,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  leads 
her  into  her  own  room. 

Lady  Wentworth  has  been  for  many  days  nerving  her- 
self to  the  great  effort  of  receiving  her  future  daughter- 
in-law  cordially,  and  is  somewhat  surprised,  now  it  is  over, 
to  find  how  little  difficulty  there  has  been  in  the  perform- 
ance of  the  dreaded  task.  In  spite  of  the  eulogiums  she 


THE  SUN  SHINES. 


345 


had  heard  on  all  sides  of  Dolores,  she  has  not  been  dis- 
posed to  think  favorably  of  or  to  like  her ;  but  now  she 
sees  the  pretty,  childish,  innocent  face,  and  hears  the  soft, 
slightly  foreign  voice,  her  prejudices  melt  away,  and  she 
feels  the  benevolent  protecting  emotion  that  the  sight  of 
weakness  and  helplessness  always  inspires  in  her.  So, 
when  Guy  comes  in  a  few  minutes  later,  feeling  a  little 
nervous  and  uncomfortable,  he  is  most  agreeably  reassured 
by  finding  the  pair  upon  the  best  of  terms. 

It  is  evening  of  the  day  of  Dolores's  arrival  at  Went- 
worth,  and  she  and  Guy  are  sitting  together  in  the  em- 
brasure of  the  window  in  fhe  small  drawing-room,  as  it  is 
called.  Lady  Wentworth  is  also  of  the  party,  but  she  has 
acquired  the  delightful  habit  of  dozing  after  dinner,  so 
highly  desirable  for  elderly  people,  especially  when  they 
have  to  play  the  unthankful  part  of  third  to  a  pair  of  lovers. 
She  has  placed  herself  discreetly,  and  without  apology, 
with  her  back  to  the  other  members  of  the  company,  so 
that  Dolores's  head  may  recline  on  the  strong  shoulder  of 
her  beloved,  and  he  may  whisper  in  her  pretty  ear  with 
perfect  ease  and  confidence.  For  a  moment  her  scruples 
have  vanished  ;  the  kindness  and  cordiality  of  Lady  Went  - 
worth  have  put  her  at  her  ease,  and  she  feels  in  a  state  of 
tranquil  bliss,  as  though  she  were  dreaming  some  fairy- 
tale. Everything  seems  so  wonderful  and  magnificent ; 
for,  although  Guy's  house  is  only  a  well- furnished  and 
well-kept-up  country-seat,  to  her,  who  has  seen  nothing 
all  her  life  but  the  little  campagnes  dotted  abo«U  Rouen, 
it  seems  a  kind  of  fairy  palace,  the  splendor  r»f  which 
dazzles  her. 

There  has  been  silence  for  some  moments — Gnv  from 
an  indolent  sense  of  bien-etre,  and  Dolores  because  she  «s 
so  happy  she  does  not  want  to  break  the  spell.  Present  , 
p* 


,.,     DOLORES. 

however,  she  turns  her  face  upwards,  and  whispers,  in  her 
pretty  accent, — 

"Will  you  please  pinch  me,  Guy?" 

At  this  strange  request  he  smiles,  and  takes  one  of  the 
round  white  arms  in  his  bronzed  hand. 

"  Oh,  much  harder — I  do  not  feel  that." 

Instead  of  complying  with  this  order,  he  stoops  his 
mouth  and  kisses  it. 

"I  did  net  mean  that,"  she  says,  smiling,  "  but  it  will 
do  as  well.  I  only  wanted  to  be  quite  sure  I  was  awake. 
"  Sometimes"  (becoming  grave,  and  looking  with  wistful 
eyes  into  the  kind  blue  ones  that  meet  hers) — "some- 
times, when  I  feel  so  happy  as  I  do  now,  I  fancy  that  I 
am  dreaming,  and  that  I  shall  wake  and  find  myself  back 
in  the  old  house,  or  under  the  apple-trees.  I  used  some- 
times to  dream  there  that  I  was  with  you,  and  then,  when 
I  awoke"  (shuddering) — "  ah !  man  Dieu  /" 

I  wonder  what  man  could  be  so  cold  as  to  hear  such  a 
loving,  innocent  confession  unmoved  ?  Not  Guy. 

"My  darling,"  he  whispers,  fervently,  "I  pray  God 
you  may  not  be  deceiving  yourself  in  thinking  too  well  of 
me.  Go  on  loving  me,  and  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  be 
worthy  of  your  pure,  sweet  love." 

A  knot  rises  in  his  throat ;  he  is  deeply  moved  by  the 
great  love  this  child  bears  him,  and  such  tenderness  for  her 
wells  up  in  his  heart  that  it  is  almost  love.  For  once  the 
other  shadow  does  not  come  between.  Then  they  fall  to 
happy  talk  about  the  future — the  trip  to  Norway,  the  big 
salmon  that  Dolores  is  to  catch ;  and  then  the  shooting- 
party  at  home  in  September,  the  visits  to  friends,  and  the 
festivities  with  which  they  will  keep  her  first  Christmas  in 
England.  When  Lady  Wentworth,  waking  up,  announces 
that  it  is  half-past  ten,  they  cannot  believe  the  clock. 

"My  dear  mother,  it  must  be  an  hour  fast"  (consult- 


DOUBT. 


347 


ing  his  watch) — "no,  by  Jove  J  five  minutes  slow  !  Is  it 
possible?" 

"Ah!"  says  Lady  Wentworth,  smiling  benevolently, 
"  I  have  known  such  instances  before;  but  I  think  Dolores 
will  need  rest  after  London  hours,  and' '  (kindly)  "  I  should 
like  to  see  a  few  more  roses  with  the  lilies." 

"  And  you,"  Dolores  asks  of  Guy — "  do  you  go  to  bed, 
too?" 

"  Oh,  no"  (laughing)  ;  "  this  is  my  time  for  study.  To- 
morrow you  shall  see  where  I  burn  the  midnight  oil." 

"Midnight  tobacco,  I'm  afraid,"  smiles  his  mother; 
"you  will  have  to  cure  him  of  his  bad  habits,  my  dear." 

"  But,  indeed,  I  like  very  much  the  smell  of  a  cigar," 
says  Dolores,  simply. 

"Ah,  mother,"  laughs  Guy,  "you  see  I  am  going  to 
get  fortified  in  one  bad  habit,  at  all  events."  And  he 
salutes  his  mother  affectionately  on  the  cheek  as  he  pre- 
sents her  with  her  candle.  "Good-night,  little  white 
rose,"  and,  dissembler  that  he  is,  contents  himself  with 
pressing  a  light  kiss  upon  the  little  hand  that  is  out- 
stretched to  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

DOUBT. 

MARCELLINE,  beaming  with  smiles,  awaits  her  young 
mistress  in  the  dainty  apartments  that  have  been  prepared 
for  her.  There  is  a  pink-and- white  bedroom,  a  blue-and- 
white  boudoir,  and  a  chintz  dressing-room  for  Marcelline ; 
for  Lady  Wentworth,  who  never  forgets  anything,  has 
thought  it  probable  that  Dolores  may  feel  lonely  or  nervous 


348  DOLORES. 

in  a  strange  house,  and,  little  coward  that  she  is,  no  mortal 
power  would  induce  her  to  sleep  in  a  room  where  she  could 
not  have  Marcelline  within  call.  That  faithful  creature  is 
in  a  seventh  heaven. 

"  Tiens  /"  she  cries,  when  the  door  is  shut,  and  she  has 
commenced  the  business  of  disrobing  her  young  mistress. 
"  I  hope  Milady  is  satisfied  with  her  chateau — her  pal- 
ace ;  and  I,  who  thought  everything  must  be  so  cold  and 
uncomfortable  and  dull  in  this  country  !  But  it  is  a  para- 
dise here  !" 

"If  only  the  angels  spoke  French,  I  suppose,"  laughs 
Dolores.  "Tell  me,  my  poor  Marcelline,  how  do  you 
make  them  understand?" 

"  Oh,  but  my  English  is  not  so  contemptible  as  Made- 
moiselle pretends,"  utters  Marcelline,  with  a  touch  of 
pique.  "  I  make  myself  understood.  And  M.  Valken- 
shaw  also  speaks  a  little  French,  and  Milady's  femme  de 
chambre.  Ah !  but  if  I  were  to  tell  Mademoiselle  the 
compliments  that  have  been  made  her  this  evening  at  the 

supper but  no ;  she  is  already  spoiled.  And  when 

these  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies  flatter  her  so  much,  she 
will  not  occupy  herself  with  what  the  domestics  say." 

"  But  tell  me,  all  the  same,"  says  Dolores,  who  has  not 
had  so  much  praise  and  flattery  in  her  life  as  to  become 
easily  blase. 

"No,"  replies  Marcelline,  perversely,  "I  shall  not  tell 
Mademoiselle;  but"  (slily)  "I  will  tell  her  instead  what 
they  say  of  Sir  Ghi." 

"Ah!  do!"  cries  the  girl  enthusiastically,  a  lovely 
flush  deepening  in  her  face;  "I  would  much  rather  hear 
that — oh,  yes,  a  thousand  times  !" 

"Petite,"  utters  Marcelline,  gravely,  stopping,  brush 
in  hand,  to  look  in  the  girl's  face,  "  you  are  getting  to 
love  too  much  your  Sir  Ghi.  Listen  to  me,  my  child  :  it 


DOUBT. 


349 


is  not  good  for  men  to  know  that  they  are  much  beloved. 
Be  a  little  difficile,  a  little  coquette,  with  him  sometimes ; 
talk  with  other  gentlemen,  as  if  you  also  liked  them ;  he 
will  prize  you  the  more." 

Dolores  draws  herself  up  a  little  stiffly. 

''The  advice  you  give  me  is  French,"  she  says,  "  and 
I"  (proudly)  "am  English." 

"Ma petite  cherie"  retorts  Marcelline,  "the  advice  is 
as  good  for  Englishmen  as  Frenchmen,  since  they  are  all 
much  alike  where  a  woman  is  concerned." 

"Well"  (impatiently),  "but  what  do  they  say  of 
him?" 

"What  do  they  say?  Tiens !  what  do  they  not  say? 
He  is  the  most  generous,  most  kind,  most  thoughtful — 
ah!  man  Dieu,  I  cannot  remember  half.  He  is  every- 
thing that  is  good  and  noble,  and  they  all  rejoice,  they 
say,  that  he  will  have  so  beautiful  and  gracious  a  little 
lady  for  his  wife." 

"Marcelline,"  says  the  girl,  thoughtfully,  "why  is  it 
that  every  one  finds  me  beautiful  and  gracious  now  ! — no 
one  used  to  tell  me  so  at  home,  in  Rouen." 

"Eh,  man  Dieu!  cries  Marcelline.  "And  who  was 
there  up  in  the  little  campagne  to  find  thee  beautiful? 
Was  it  old  Pierre,  or  Jeanneton?  Thy  stupid  old  Mar- 
celline" (slily)  "knew  thee  for  what  thou  wert,  but  she 
was  not  going  to  put  ideas  for  nothing  into  thy  pretty 
head.  And  dost  thou  not  remember  how  the  smart  young 
officers,  with  the  little  waists,  used  to  turn  their  heads 
when  thouwent'st  by?  And"  (conclusively)  "if  he  had 
not  found  thee  beautiful,  why  did  Sir  Ghi  follow  thee  and 
want  to  paint  thee?" 

Dolores  is  silent.  Her  first  meeting  with  Sir  Guy  is 
always  rather  a  sore  subject.  Poor  Marcelline  rattles  on : 

"And  if  thou  hadst  not  been  beautiful,  wouldst  thou 
30 


350  DOLORES. 

now  be  going  to  be  a  great  lady,  and  mistress  of  this  fine 
chateau  ?  Ah,  if  thy  mamma,  poor  lady !  had  lived,  how 
proud  would  she  have  been  !" 

Dolores  shakes  her  head. 

"I  do  not  think  she  would  have  cared;  she  did  not 
love  me.  Tell  me,  Marcelline,  what  do  you  remember 
of  her  first?  When  did  you  come  to  us? — I  don't  think 
I  ever  heard.  Sit  down  here,  and  tell  me." 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell"  (with  a  shrug).  "I  used 
to  live  with  my  brother  and  his  wife — ah !  mon  Dieu  ! 
what  a  temper  that  woman  had  1  It  was  five  miles  from 
Rouen.  I  used  to  carry  eggs  and  butter  into  the  market, 
and  one  day  I  heard  that  a  young  lady  with  a  little  child 
had  taken  one  of  the  campagnes  on  the  hill,  and  wanted  a 
servant.  I  thought  I  would  go  and  see  about  it,  for  I 
had  been  bonne  to  some  children  before,  and  I  could  no 
longer  bear  the  tongue  of  my  belle-s&ur,  so  I  went  to  the 
campagne,  and  engaged  with  Madame ;  and  when  I  went 
back  home  and  told  Adeline,  was  she  furious?" 

Marcelline  chuckles  still  at  the  remembrance. 

"  But  my  mother — was  she  young?" 

"Yes,  she  was  young,  and  had  been  beautiful  also, 
though  not  like  Mademoiselle,  but  she  looked  as  if  she 
had  wept  her  eyes  away.  There  were  great  hollow  rings 
round  them,  and  already  gray  hairs  were  coming  thick 
among  the  black  ones.  She  made  me  miserable  only  to 
see  her;  but  thou  wert  such  a  merry,  pretty  little  infant, 
not  three  years  old,  I  loved  thee  at  once,  and  so  I  con- 
sented to  go.  But,  poor  lady !  I  never  saw  any  one  so 
unhappy.  She  wore  deep  black  for  Monsieur  thy  father, 
I  suppose,  and  she  never  spoke,  and  scarcely  ate,  and  at 
night  I  could  hear  her  sob  and  cry,  until  I  could  have 
cried  also  to  hear  her." 

"Poor  mamma!"  utters  Dolores,  softly. 


DOUBT. 


35* 


"  Yes,  indeed,  poor  lady !  Although  I  could  not  help 
wondering  always  how,  when  she  had  a  little  angel  like 
thee,  she  did  not  console  herself.  Sometimes  for  days 
she  would  not  ask  for  nor  see  thee ;  and  as  the  years  went 
on  she  ceased  to  weep  and  cry,  but  then  she  became  quite 
cold  and  severe,  and  I  grew  to  feel  afraid  of  her.  The 
good  God  did  well  to  take  her,  poor  lady!" 

"  Why  are  people  allowed  to  be  so  miserable,  I  won- 
der?" says  Dolores,  thoughtfully. 

"  Ah !  that  is  what  only  the  bon  Dieu  knows ;  but  thou 
must  thank  him  for  having  made  thee  so  happy,  my  little 
angel.  Now  sleep,  and  dream  of  all  the  happiness  that 
waits  for  thee  when  thou  wakest." 

The  days  pass  swiftly  and  so  happily.  Dolores  has  her 
lover  all  to  herself  now.  He  is  teaching  her  to  ride. 
She  is  not  endowed  with  a  courageous  soul,  but  with  him 
at  her  bridle-rein  she  never  feels  afraid.  And  those 
delicious  canters  over  the  lovely  downs  bring  the  roses 
to  her  fair  face,  and  the  rippling  laughter  of  enjoyment 
to  her  lips,  and  she  cannot  help  saying,  half  a  dozen 
times  in  the  day,  "Oh,  how  happy  I  am!"  He  drives 
her  about  the  country  on  his  coach,  takes  her  round  his 
farms,  and  introduces  her  to  his  tenants,  and  upon  every 
face  he  reads  admiration  and  sympathy  with  his  choice. 
It  is  not  that  Dolores  is  a  regular  beauty — there  is  nothing 
stately  or  commanding  or  statuesque  about  her — it  is  the 
bright  beauty  of  youth  and  coloring,  and  a  winning, 
childish  expression,  that  inspires  every  one  with  a  desire 
to  protect  and  make  much  of  her.  She  behaves  to  the 
farmers'  wives  just  as  she  would  to  Lady  Heronmere,  with 
a  natural,  easy  grace,  and  a  certain  deference  she  is  used 
to  pay  her  elders. 

Guy  is  happier  than  he  has  been  for  many  a  long  day ; 
he  has  resolutely  banished  all  thought  of  any  other 


353  DOLORES. 

woman,  and  is  only  anxious  now  for  the  wedding  to  be 
over,  that  he  may  carry  off  his  lovely  little  bride  to 
Norway.  Lady  Wentworth  has  become  wonderfully  fond 
of  Dolores ;  all  her  prejudices  have  vanished  before  the 
girl's  sweet  manners;  it  pleases  her,  usually  undemon- 
strative though  she  is,  to  lavish  kindness  and  caresses  upon 
her,  which  Dolores,  who  has  never  known  a  mother's  ten- 
derness, eagerly  reciprocates. 

So  everything  is  rose-color;  the  sky  is  blue  and  un- 
clouded, and  for  once  it  seems  as  though  one  mortal  at 
least  was  permitted  to  taste  pure  felicity.  Thirteen 
happy  days  without  one  shadow  of  pain  or  vexation  to 
alloy  their  sweetness.  But  the  thirteenth  is  the  last.  On 
the  evening  of  it  Guy  gets  a  telegram,  announcing  the 
seizure  of  his  father's  only  brother  with  a  fit,  and  sum- 
moning him  at  once  to  London.  So  there  is  a  sudden 
ending  to  the  bliss.  No  sleep  visits  Dolores's  eyes  that 
night ;  her  heart  is  heavy,  and  full  of  forebodings ;  Guy 
has  gone,  with  the  promise  of  a  speedy  return,  but  she 
feels  almost  as  sad  as  if  he  had  gone  forever.  Mr.  Went- 
worth was  not  expected  to  live  many  hours ;  if  he  died, 
the  marriage  would  have  to  be  postponed;  but  the 
thought  which  hurts  her  most  is  that  Guy  is  near  Milly. 
She  has  felt,  during  the  last  three  weeks,  that  she  has 
been  gaining  an  ascendency  over  him,  that  he  is  becom- 
ing more  attached  to  her  every  day,  and  now  a  sort  of 
presentiment  comes  across  her  that  she  will  lose  all  the 
ground  she  has  gained,  and  he  will  succumb  once  more 
to  the  old  fascination.  She  suffers  agonies  of  jealousy ; 
her  whole  heart  and  soul  are  so  bound  up  in  Guy,  the 
idea  of  his  preferring  another  woman  to  her,  although 
she  can  never  be  his,  tortures  her  cruelly,  and  she  cries 
tears  of  impotent  anguish,  and  stifles  her  sobs  in  the 
pillows,  that  Marcelline  may  not  hear  them.  When 


DOUBT. 


353 


that  faithful  creature  comes  to  her  in  the  morning,  she 
is  horror-stricken  at  the  white  cheeks  and  swollen  lids. 

"  Tiens !  tiens /"  she  says,  almost  angrily;  "but  could 
one  have  believed  such  foolishness !  Here  is  Sir  Ghi, 
just  gone  for  a  day  to  the  bedside  of  a  rich  uncle,  who 
will  perhaps  die  and  leave  him  more  money,  and  Made- 
moiselle must  make  herself  look  like  a  ghost  with  weep- 
ing !  But  it  is  ridiculous  !  ' 

At  which  Dolores  begins  to  cry  again. 

"Ft  done,  mademoiselle  !"  continues  Marcelline,  think- 
ing a  little  judicious  scolding  the  proper  remedy  for  this 
imaginary  grief.  "  What  will  Milady  say,  and  all  the  ser- 
vants ?  They  will  laugh  at  you.  But  for  shame  !  When 
I  was  a  girl  I  would  not  have  let  people  think  I  cared  so 
much  for  any  man.  It  is  impossible  that  you  go  down  to 
breakfast  with  such  eyes,  though,  when  you  do  not  appear 
every  one  will  know  just  the  same  what  ails  you.  Come, 
I  shall  fetch  you  some  coffee,  and  you  shall  well  bathe 
your  eyes,  and  rub  your  face  hard,  to  make  a  little  color 
come  into  it." 

So,  between  coaxing  and  scolding,  Marcelline  at  last 
gets  her  young  mistress  dressed,  and  sends  her  into  Lady 
Wentworth's  sitting-room. 

That  kind-hearted  lady  starts  up  in  genuine  concern  at 
sight  of  Dolores's  pale  face. 

"  My  love,"  she  says,  drawing  her  to  the  sofa,  and  kiss- 
ing her  affectionately,  "you  must  not  take  this  so  seri- 
ously. Please  God,  my  poor  brother  may  get  over  this 
attack ;  but  in  any  case  Guy  will  be  down  again  very  soon. 
You  must  try  to  put  up  with  a  stupid  old  woman  for  a  few 
days ;  it  will  be  all  the  pleasanter  when  he  comes  back, 
you  know." 

"Oh,  indeed,  it  is  not  that,"  answers  the  child,  pite- 
ously,  trying  to  restrain  her  tears.  "I  am  very,  very 
X  30* 


354  DOLORES. 

happy  with  you,  dear  Lady  Wentworth.  I  am  very  silly, 
I  know,  but  somehow — I  cannot  tell  why — I  feel  as  if  some 
great  misfortune  were  going  to  befall  me — as  if — as  if  I 
should  lose  him."  Here  she  fairly  breaks  down. 

"But,  my  love"  (soothingly),  "that  is  giving  way 
wrongly.  What  should  happen  to  him  ? — how  could  you 
lose  him  ?  It  is  only  a  little  nervousness,  that  you  must 
make  an  effort  to  conquer.  You  know,  if  you  had  been 
married  to  him,  he  would  have  been  obliged  to  leave  you 
just  the  same  on  an  occasion  like  this." 

"It  is  a  presentiment,"  murmurs  Dolores. 

"  Oh  !  I  have  had  dozens  of  presentiments  that  never 
came  to  anything,"  answers  the  elder  lady,  cheerily. 
"When  we  love  any  one  very  much,  we  are  so  fearful  of 
losing  them  that  we  try  to  stave  off  misfortune  by  antici- 
pating it." 

Meanwhile,  Guy  is  in  London.  On  arriving  at  the  hotel 
on  the  previous  evening,  he  had  found  his  uncle  uncon- 
scious, and  in  a  very  critical  state.  The  faithful  old  ser- 
vant, the  only  person  with  Mr.  Wentworth,  told  Guy, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  of  the  sudden  seizure  of  his  master, 
and  the  opinion  given  by  the  physician  who  had  been 
called  in. 

"  Of  course  the  first  thing  I  thought  of,  as  soon  as  I 
could  turn  around,  was  to  send  off  for  you,  Sir  Guy,  and 
glad  I  am  you're  here,  for  I  feel  quite  dazed  and  stupid, 
and  as  if  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  or  think  of  next.  My 
poor,  dear  master,  as  hale  and  hearty  a  looking  gentleman 
as  any  in  the  country.  I  sent  to  the  captain,  but  he  was 
gone  to  the  races ;  but  Mrs.  Charteris  came  at  once,  and 
she  would  have  more  advice,  and  stopped  and  heard  what 
the  physicians  had  to  say ;  and  the  first  thing  she  asked 
was  if  you'd  been  sent  for.  And  says  she,  '  Beg  Sir  Guy 
to  come  to  me  as  soon  as  he  arrives. '  For  you  know,  Sir 


DOUBT.  355 

Guy,  she  was  very  fond  of  my  poor  master,  and  so  was  he 
fond  of  her." 

Guy  had  not  intended  going  to  Milly's  house — at  all 
events,  that  night ;  but  when  her  message  is  given  to  him, 
he  does  not  think  twice  about  complying  with  it.  So, 
after  he  has  seen  the  family  physician,  he  goes  to  her  at 
once.  It  is  nearly  nine,  but  she  has  waited  dinner  for  him, 
and  they  sit  down  to  a  very  melancholy  tete-a-tete. 

Guy  is  devoted  to  his  uncle,  who  has  been  a  second 
father  to  him;  and  the  blow  falls  with  all  the  greater 
force  because  it  is  so  utterly  unexpected.  He  feels  it 
acutely ;  the  sight  of  that  kind  cheery  face,  so  altered 
and  still,  has  quite  unnerved  him ;  the  thought  that  he 
may  never  hear  the  kind  hearty  tones  of  that  dear  old 
voice  again,  fills  him  with  a  pain  too  deep  for  words. 
He  cannot  realize  it ;  he  has  never  yet  lost  any  one  by 
death ;  and  there  is  no  one  except  his  mother  whose  loss 
he  would  feel  so  much.  Ralph  Wentworth  had  never 
married,  and  Guy  had  been  to  him  as  a  son. 

There  is  no  woman  living  more  sympathizing  in  trouble 
than  Milly,  or  whose  sympathy  is  more  consoling  than 
hers.  She  knows  so  well  how  to  cicatrize  a  wound,  and 
never  makes  it  bleed  afresh.  Dolores's  presentiment  is 
true  enough :  the  old  subtle  influence  steals  over  Guy  as 
he  sits  talking  to  Milly — it  is  to  her  he  turns  in  his 
trouble;  he  has  almost  forgotten  the  pretty  little  girl  who 
is  to  be,  and  who  has  been  lately,  so  much  a  part  of  his 
life.  But  he  remembers  her  when  the  door  has  closed  be- 
tween him  and  Milly,  and  he  is  walking  back  to  the  hotel. 

"  Poor  little  girl !"  he  says,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

For  days  Mr.  Wentworth  lingers  between  life  and  death ; 
sometimes  a  feeble  glimmering  of  consciousness  returns 
to  him,  and  his  eyes  seek  Guy  with  something  of  recogni- 
tion in  them  ;  but  at  last  the  life  flickers  out,  and  the  kind 


356  DOLORES, 

generous  heart  beats  no  more.  Guy  has  been  constantly 
at  his  bedside,  and  every  day  Milly  has  come  to  share  the 
watch.  She  has  felt  from  the  first  that  the  end  is  nigh, 
but  Guy  would  hope  against  hope,  and  so  she  let  him 
hope.  The  shock  is  great  when  it  comes :  he  has  never 
in  his  life  felt  a  pain  like  this,  for  he  has  never  lost 
any  one  he  loved  by  death.  After  the  funeral  is  over,  he 
feels  a  listless  disinclination  to  see  any  one  or  do  any- 
thing, that  is  quite  foreign  to  his  active  nature.  He 
shrinks  from  going  back  to  Wentworth ;  the  thought  of 
love-making  and  marriage  seems  a  kind  of  disrespect  to 
the  dead ;  the  only  comfort  he  finds  is  in  Milly's  pres- 
ence, and  he  spends  nearly  all  his  time  with  her. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

LOVE   AT   CROSS-PURPOSES. 

MILLY  sits  alone  in  her  boudoir ;  it  is  a  charming  little 
room — blue  satin  and  gold,  with  a  good  deal  of  choice 
lace,  old  Dresden,  Chelsea  and  Sevres  china,  a  few  lovely 
little  cabinet  pictures,  some  velvet-mounted  miniatures, 
quaint  vases  of  flowers ;  her  favorite  books,  all  bound  alike 
in  blue,  a  couple  of  big  curious  old  china  dragons  by  the 
fireplace,  and  a  hundred  other  nicknackeries  which  are 
the  delight  of  a  woman's  eyes.  They  are  to  her  what 
guns,  pistols,  foils,  whips,  heads  and  brushes,  antlers, 
gloves,  pipes,  swords,  polished  hoofs,  tobacco-pouches, 
fishing-rods,  cricket-bats,  prints  of  celebrated  horses  and 
dogs,  are  to  man — a  sportsman  bien  entendu,  Milly  is  at 
her  writing-table,  pen  in  hand,  but  the  paper  is  blank  be- 


LOVE  AT  CKOSS-PURPOSES.  357 

fore  her,  and  she  is  evidently  in  a  brown  study.  She  is 
thinking  how  hollow  life  is,  and  how  little  pleasure  there 
is  to  be  got  out  of  it.  She  has  told  herself  this  often 
enough  before,  has  predicted  and  been  sure  that  she  is  not 
destined  to  be  happy,  and  yet  she  has  gone  on  hoping 
against  hope,  as  we  all  do,  though  we  have  been  disap- 
pointed ever  so  many  times.  "It  is  my  own  fault,"  she 
tells  herself;  "  I  expect  too  much  :  many  fortunate  things 
have  happened  to  me  in  my  life,  and  I  ought  to  be  grate- 
ful, make  the  best  of  what  I  have,  and  let  it  content  me. 
When  I  look  round  and  see  the  misery,  the  want,  the 
sickness  and  suffering  about  me,  even  at  my  very  doors,  I 
am  well  and  strong,  and  rich  comparatively.  I  have  no 
affliction  nor  deformity,  no  bodily  ailment,  no  great  mental 
anxiety,  and  yet  God  knows  whether  I  am  a  happy  woman  ! 
Oh,  these  little  daily  carking  cares,  that  sap  out  love,  life, 
youth,  so  slowly  and  surely  !  I  used  to  have  tact,  they 
said  ;  I  have  now  in  the  common  affairs  of  the  world,  but 
none  where  I  most  want  it.  And  it  is  no  use  talking  to 
myself,  I  know  it  all  just  as  well  as  Tantalus  knew  where 
the  water  was  he  could  never  reach.  I  bore  Adrian,  that 
is  the  plain  truth ;  my  love  for  him  is  a  nuisance — it  an- 
noys him.  I,  who  would  give  life,  fortune,  everything  I 
have,  to  make  him  happy!  I  know  quite  well  what  I 
ought  to  do.  I  ought  to  let  him  come  and  go  as  he  pleases, 
to  be  as  free  as  before  he  married  me ;  to  ask  no  questions, 
never  to  resent  his  absence  or  insist  on  his  company ;  to 
look  pleasant  and  cheery  when  he  comes  home,  and  to 
amuse  him.  I  used  to  be  able  to  amuse  men  ;  I  had  the 
reputation  of  being  agreeable  and  having  plenty  to  say. 
Even  now  men  seem  to  care  to  talk  to  me,  but  somehow 
when  Adrian  and  I  are  alone  together  we  are  almost  al- 
ways silent ;  I  feel  angry  with  him  for  something  he  has 
done  or  left  undone,  and  if  he  sees  I  am  annoyed,  he 


358  DOLORES. 

takes  the  paper  or  a  book  and  reads  on  without  speaking 
a  word  to  me.  Oh,  if  he  would  only  once  say  to  me, 
'Don't  be  angry,  Milly,  I  did  not  mean  to  vex  you,'  or 
speak  kindly,  what  would  I  not  forgive  him  !  What  do  I 
ask  more  than  to  be  happy,  and  to  love  him  with  all  my 
heart,  and  never  to  have  a  harsh  word  with  him !" 

The  tears  come  into  her  eyes,  and  a  sob  chokes  her. 

"Why  cannot  I  be  sensible?  Why  do  I  feel  angry, 
and  bitter,  and  jealous,  when  I  see  him  talking  to  other 
women,  and  looking  into  their  eyes  as  if  he  adored  them  ? 
I  know  it  is  only  his  manner.  He  never  really"  (sighing) 
"  cared  for  any  one  in  his  life ;  but  it  makes  me  feel  un- 
utterably miserable,  and  I  cannot  help  showing  him  that 
I  am  angry.  I  shall  make  him  hate  me  soon." 

There  comes  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"May  I  come  in?"  asks  Guy's  voice,  and  he  enters, 
not  looking  much  less  unhappy  than  Milly. 

It  is  four  days  since  the  funeral  has  taken  place,  and 
after  the  first  greeting  is  over  she  says,  looking  rather  fix- 
edly at  him, — 

"Guy,  when  are  you  going  back  to  Wentworth?" 

He  moves  a  little  uneasily  in  his  chair,  drums  with  a 
paper-knife  on  a  book,  gives  various  signs  of  disquietude 
of  mind,  and  then  answers,  abruptly, — 

"Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know." 

"Why  not  to-day?" 

"To-day!"  starting;  then,  in  a  piqued  tone,  "Do  I 
bore  you  very  much?" 

"You  know  it  is  not  that"  (quietly) j  "but  don't  you 
think  your  duty  is  more  there  than  here?" 

"Perhaps;  but"  (hotly)  "how  can  I  think  for  a  mo- 
ment of  my  own  pleasure  and  gratification,  or  of  laughing 
and  love-making,  when  that  dear  old  man  is  hardly  cold 
in  his  grave?" 


LOVE  AT  CKOSS-PIWPOSES. 


359 


Milly  looks  at  him  sorrowfully.  She  is  thinking  that, 
if  he  loved  the  girl  he  was  going  to  marry,  his  first 
thought  would  be  to  go  to  her  to  fill  the  void  that  his 
uncle's  death  had  made  in  his  heart. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  says,  very  softly,  "that  your 
first  duty,  now  you  can  do  no  more  for  the  dead,  is  to  the 
living?  You  know  how  sensitive  Dolores  is,  and  how 
deeply  attached  to  you  :  don't  you  think  that  all  this  time 
she  is  suffering  cruelly  from  your  absence,  especially  now 
that  there  is  nothing  to  detain  you  here  any  longer?" 

Milly  is  fond  of  Guy ;  she  likes  to  have  him  with  her ; 
but  she  has  a  strong  sense  of  right,  and  a  great  compassion 
for  any  other  woman  who  loves  more  than  she  is  beloved ; 
and  although  she  does  not  in  her  heart  care  very  much 
for  Dolores,  she  would  be  the  first  to  support  her  cause 
and  persuade  Guy  back  to  her. 

Guy  rises  irritably  from  his  chair,  and  walks  up  and 
down.  At  last  he  seats  himself  again  facing  Milly. 

"I  ought  not  to  say  it,"  he  begins,  in  a  low  voice, 
looking  and  feeling  uncomfortable,  and  ashamed  of  him- 
self— "I  could  not  say  it  to  any  one  else,  but  I  feel  the 
want  of  some  one  to  speak  to  so  intensely,  and  there  is  no 
one  but  you  I  could  or  would  trust.  You  know,  before 
this  happened,  when  I  was  down  at  Wentworth,  I  was 
getting  quite  reconciled  to  the  idea,  and  really  fond  of 
her,  poor  little  girl !  but  now — I  don't  know  what  pos- 
sesses me — I  feel  a  horror  of  going  back.  I'll  tell  you 
what  it  is,  Milly — I  can  tell  you,  because  you  know  the 
whole  story,  and  therefore  won't  think  me  a  conceited 
ass,  or  believe  I  am  deceiving  myself.  I  assure  you  it 
makes  me  positively  unhappy  to  see  how  fond  that  poor 
little  thing  has  grown  of  me.  I  look  upon  it  as  a  kind 
of  infatuation,  and  some  day  I'm  afraid  she  will  wake  up 
from  it,  and  see  me  as  I  am,  and  be  horribly  disappointed 


360  DOLORES. 

in  me.  I  am  positively  afraid  to  go  back  now.  I  have  a 
sort  of  idea  she  will  look  unhappy,  and  I  shall  seem  cold 
and  changed  to  her,  and  the  very  effort  that  I  shall  have 
to  make  to  seem  fond  enough  to  satisfy  her  will,  I  know, 
convince  her  all  the  more  that  I  do  not  care  for  her  as  I 
ought.  She  is  so  quick,  she  seems  to  read  my  thoughts 
by  instinct.  Oh!"  (with  a  groan)  "why  did  I  ever  go 
back  to  Paris  ?' ' 

"  How  perverse  you  men  are  !"  says  Milly,  thoughtfully. 
"  Why  can't  you  take  the  goods  the  gods  provide,  and  be 
thankful  ?  Dolores  is  very  pretty,  and  devoted  to  you ; 
many  a  man  might  envy  you." 

"Yes,  I  know,  and  don't  think  badly  of  me  for  speak- 
ing of  things  to  you  that,  as  a  man  of  honor,  I  should 
never  breathe  even  to  myself;  but  I  tell  you  truthfully 
that  my  fear  and  reluctance  are  infinitely  more  for  her 
sake  than  my  own.  This  life  is  so  new  to  her ;  of  course 
it  seems  fair  enough  now,  but  when  she  has  got  used  to  it, 
and  I  don't  satisfy  her,  or  she  finds  I  am  not  what  she  fan- 
cies me — and  God  knows  I  am  not ! — shall  we  not  wake 
up  one  morning  and  find  ourselves  both  wretched  ?" 

"Nonsense!"  (cheerfully).  "When  you  are  once 
married  you  will  be  devoted  to  her,  and  very  proud  of  her, 
and  "  (looking  at  him  kindly)  "  I  think  it  very  improba- 
ble that  she  will  see  cause,  at  any  future  time,  to  change 
her  opinion  of  you." 

"  Please  God  she  may  not !"  (devoutly).  "  But,  any- 
how, Milly,  all  our  plans  are  altered  now,  and  the 
marriage  cannot  take  place  the  end  of  this  month,  as  it 
was  fixed." 

"No"  (thoughtfully);  but  in  two  months'  time, 
perhaps." 

"  That  would  be  August — a  horrid  month  for  traveling; 
and  this  year  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  shoot,  the  first  of 


LOVE  AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  361 

September.  We  were  to  have  had  a  large  party,  but,  of 
course,  all  that  is  knocked  on  the  head  now.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  have  been  thinking  of.  You  know,  I  meant  to 
have  taken  Dolores  to  Norway  in  the  yacht.  That  cannot 
be  now ;  but  I  cannot  stand  three  months'  pottering  about 
in  the  country  at  this  time  of  year,  with  nothing  to  do.  I 
shall  get  one  or  two  fellows  to  go  with  me,  and  start  for 
Norway  as  soon  as  possible ;  come  back  in  August,  shoot 
for  the  first  fortnight  in  September,  get  quietly  married, 
go  away  for  a  month,  and  come  back  the  end  of  October, 
to  shoot  pheasants.  Yes"  (resolutely),  "that  will  be  the 
best  plan." 

"And  Dolores  !  Do  you  forget  how  unhappy  she  will 
be  if  you  go  away  for  so  long?" 

"She  would  be  more  unhappy  if  I  stayed.  I  don't 
know  what's  come  to  me.  I  used  to  be  pretty  good-tem- 
pered ;  but  of  late  I've  grown  so  restless  and  irritable  I'm 
constantly  obliged  to  put  a  restraint  on  myself,  for  fear 
of  letting  out  at  somebody." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  some  one  besides  myself  feels  that," 
answers  Milly,  laughing. 

The  door  opens,  and  admits  Adrian. 

"What,  still  in  town,  Guy?"  he  asks,  raising  his  eye- 
brows. 

"  I  tell  him  he  ought  to  be  back  at  Wentworth,"  Milly 
interposes,  "and  he  means  to  go  this  afternoon:  don't 
you,  Guy?"  looking  at  him. 

"  I  can't,  very  well,"  he  answers.  "  I  must  run  down 
and  have  a  look  at  the  yacht,  and  see  Mason,  if  I  mean 
to  start  in  a  fortnight." 

"  Why,  where  are  you  off  to?" 

"  Norway." 

"By  Jove  !  I've  a  great  mind  to  go  with  you." 

"Do,"  says  Guy,  and,  the  moment  after,  is  sorry,  as  he 
Q  31 


362  DOLORES. 

looks  up  and  sees  the  liveliest  agitation  depicted  in  Milly's 
expressive  face. 

"You  are  not  serious,  Adrian?"  she  says,  her  lips 
quivering ;  "  you  would  not  really  go  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  will ;  I  am  getting  sick  of  London,  and  I 
haven't  been  to  Norway  for  three  seasons." 

"I  cannot  really  spare  you,"  she  says,  forcing  a 
smile,  but  in  a  voice  that  expresses  her  meaning  clearly 
enough. 

Guy  longs  to  say  to  her,  "You  must  come  too,"  but 
the  impossibility  of  it  flashes  across  him  in  time.  What  1 
shut  himself  up  in  the  small  compass  of  a  yacht  with  the 
woman  whom  he  has  been  striving  his  hardest  to  forget ! 
— take  her,  and  leave  Dolores  in  England,  devoured  with 
jealous  pain ! 

"Oh,  you  will  amuse  yourself  charmingly,  I  don't 
doubt,"  answers  Adrian,  coolly.  "You  have  lots  of 
friends,  to  take  you  about,  and,  as  you  know,  absence 
makes  the  heart  grow  fonder." 

"Mine  has  no  need  of  absence,"  she  answers,  proudly, 
yet  with  a  certain  tremor  in  her  voice;  "and — and 
although  I  think  you  are  only  jesting — do  not  say  any 
more  about  it,  Adrian"  (pleadingly) :  "I  could  not  bear 
you  to  go." 

"Really,  this  is  worthy  of  a  very  gushing  young 
bride!"  he  answers,  laughing,  but  with  a  touch  of  sar- 
casm that  wounds  her  to  the  quick.  The  hot  blood 
mounts  to  her  cheek,  and  she  walks  to  her  escritoire  and 
pretends  to  turn  over  some  papers.  Guy  suffers  acutely 
for  her  sake,  but  he  does  not  know  quite  what  to  say. 

"Married  men  have  no  business  to  leave  their  wives," 
he  remarks,  at  last,  wishing  to  break  an  awkward  pause. 

"  Perhaps  you  may  feel  differently  on  the  subject  by 
this  time  next  year,"  retorts  Adrian,  with  a  curl  of  his 


LOVE  AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  363 

handsome  mouth.  "Indeed,  I  think  you  are  showing 
great  signs  of  defection  already,  though  you  are  supposed 
to  be  at  the  most  stirring  period  of  the  whole  transaction. 
Of  course,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  haven't  room  for  me, 
I  won't  force  my  company  upon  you.  Effingham  goes 
next  week,  and  is  looking  out  for  a  fourth  man  to  make 
up  his  party." 

"Oh,  I  have  plenty  of  room"  (coldly),  "and  if  you 
go,  you  can  go  with  me,  of  course  !" 

"  Why  not  take  Milly  and  Dolores  too?"  asks  Adrian, 
a  little  maliciously.  "Milly  is  a  first-rate  sailor,  and 
Dolores  was  all  right  crossing  the  Channel,  which  is  a 
good  test." 

There  is  silence  after  this  proposition.  Milly  is  strug- 
gling with  herself.  She  would  dearly  like  to  go,  for  any- 
thing in  the  world  seems  preferable  to  being  parted  from 
Adrian,  and,  moreover,  she  loves  yachting  ;  but  she  knows 
she  would  be  acting  against  her  own  conscience  to  go, 
even  if  Guy  pressed  it,  which  he  does  not  seem  inclined 
to  do. 

She  pretends  not  to  have  heard.     Guy  does  the  same. 

"You  don't  seem  very  keen  about  it,"  says  Adrian, 
presently,  with  a  laugh.  "After  all,  I  think  women  are 
rather  de  trap  on  a  yacht,  particularly  if  we  should  happen 
to  have  a  little  rough  weather." 

Guy,  still  silent,  rises. 

"  If  you  make  up  your  mind  to  go,  let  me  know  in  good 
time,"  he  says,  after  having  wished  Milly  good -by. 

"I  will  come  down  with  you,"  she  says  ;  and  when  they 
had  descended  the  stairs,  she  motions  him  into  the  dining- 
room.  Then  her  whole  face  changes,  and  she  says,  with 
such  eagerness,  as  she  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm, — 

"  Oh,  Guy,  don't  take  him  with  you  !  I  cannot  bear 
to  part  from  him  !  I  know  it  is  foolish,  but  the  anxiety 


364  DOLORES. 

of  feeling  he  was  at  sea,  and  might  be  drowned,  would 
half  kill  me." 

"He  won't  get  drowned,"  responds  Guy,  grimly, 
thinking  in  his  heart  that  his  brother's  life  is  of  too 
little  value  to  be  easily  lost;  and  then,  conquering  his 
momentary  bitterness,  he  says,  very  gently,  "I  do  not 
think  he  is  serious.  If  he  is,  I  will  do  my  utmost  to 
dissuade  him ;  but  if  he  goes,  you  may  trust  to  me  to  see 
that  no  harm  comes  to  him." 

And,  once  more  pressing  her  hand,  he  goes.  And  as 
he  wends  his  way  back  to  his  hotel,  this  fine  handsome 
young  man,  with  so  much  to  make  life  pleasant  and 
enviable,  is  thinking  what  a  sorry  business  the  whole 
thing  is,  after  all,  and  that  it  might  be  well  to  be  out  of 
it  and  lying  in  six  feet  of  earth,  like  his  uncle.  He  is 
impatient  of  the  perverseness  of  fate,  and  he  hates  to 
suffer,  but  there  is  one  thing  he  hates  worse,  and  that  is 
to  see  Milly  suffer.  That  Adrian  should  wound  her 
through  her  very  love  for  him  seems  unbearable,  odious; 
he  forgets  that  he  is  making  Dolores  suffer  from  the  same 
cause.  For  a  moment  he  thinks  of  giving  up  going  to 
Norway  altogether,  but  only  for  a  moment ;  he  cannot 
face  the  idea  of  three  months  more  at  Wentworth,  with 
nothing  else  to  do  than  to  make  reluctant  love.  And  he 
knows  Adrian  too  well  to  think  he  would  allow  himself  to 
be  thwarted  if  he  had  once  made  up  his  mind  to  go. 

So  it  is  decided ;  he  makes  his  arrangements,  and  the 
following  day  returns  to  Wentworth.  It  is  not,  certainly, 
with  the  joyous  haste  and  ardor  of  love  that  he  wends  his 
way  homewards  this  May  evening ;  he  feels  oppressed — 
nay,  he  even  shrinks  from  the  thought  of  meeting  Dolores. 
This  very  day,  on  his  way  through  London,  he  has  found 
a  letter  from  his  mother,  and  although,  like  a  prudent 
woman,  she  expresses  herself  very  guardedly,  it  is  quite 


LOVE  AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  365 

evident  she  thinks  he  is  not  behaving  to  Dolores  in  a  very 
kind  or  lover-like  way.  He  knows  and  feels  it  acutely 
himself,  and  this  very  consciousness  makes  him  shrink 
from  meeting  her.  It  is  with  no  light  heart  that  he 
drives  up  to  the  door,  and,  throwing  the  reins  to  the 
groom,  walks  slowly  to  his  mother's  room.  He  expects 
to  find  both  ladies  there  supporting  each  other  in  their 
reproachful  glances  and  demeanor;  he  is  not  sure  that 
Dolores  will  not  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  which  will 
make  the  position  doubly  difficult.  He  sets  his  lips,  and 
his  face  is  sterner  than  usual  as  he  opens  the  door  of  his 
mother's  room. 

She  is  there  alone,  and  as  he  goes  towards  her  she 
smiles  at  him,  in  the  pleasantest,  kindest  way  in  the 
world,  and  tells  him  how  glad  she  is  to  see  him  back. 
Not  a  word  of  reproach ;  she  does  not  even  mention 
Dolores,  but  speaks  of  his  uncle,  and  asks  many  ques- 
tions; and  this  talk  engrosses  them  until  the  dressing- 
bell  rings. 

"Where  is  Dolores,  mother?"  he  asks  then. 

"She  ran  away  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  wheels; 
very  likely  she  thought  we  might  want  to  talk  of  your 
poor  uncle,  and  was  afraid  of  being  de  trop.  Go  and 
dress  now;  she  will  be  sure  to  be  in  the  drawing-room 
when  you  come  down." 

Guy  does  not  hurry  himself  particularly,  but  still  he 
is  down  before  the  second  bell  rings.  The  drawing-room, 
however,  is  empty.  Lady  Wentworth  only  comes  in  just 
as  dinner  is  announced,  but  Dolores  is  still  not  there. 
A  moment  after  she  enters.  The  butler  is  at  the  door ; 
there  can  be  only  a  formal  salutation  between  them.  She 
is  all  in  white,  and  looks  very  fair — too  pale,  perhaps,  and 
her  eyes  look  larger  and  darker  than  usual.  She  offers  a 
small  cold  hand  to  Guy,  as  though  he  were  a  stranger; 

31* 


366  DOLORES. 

her  face  betrays  no  reproach  nor  resentment ;  she  behaves 
to  him  exactly  as  though  he  were  some  new  acquaintance. 
At  first  he  is  a  little  relieved  by  this  reception,  but,  man- 
like, when  it  continues,  he  begins  to  be  nettled  by  her 
indifference,  and  his  own  manner  becomes  warmer  and 
more  tender.  He  cannot  help  admiring  her — she  looks 
so  lovely;  and  it  somewhat  chafes  him  that  he  cannot 
win  her  eyes  to  his,  or  extract  from  her  one  of  those  soft, 
loving  looks  she  has  been  wont  to  shower  upon  him. 
There  is  no  stiffness  in  her  manner,  no  apparent  intention 
of  avoiding  him — she  behaves  as  a  woman  naturally  would 
to  a  man  who  was  a  friend  and  had  no  other  claim  upon 
her. 

Lady  Wentworth,  remarking  the  state  of  affairs,  is 
secretly  pleased.  She  gives  Dolores  credit  for  a  tact  which 
she  had  not  expected  from  her,  and  thinks  Guy  amply 
deserves  the  punishment  that  is  being  inflicted  upon  him. 

"  I  shall  make  an  excuse  for  leaving  them  together  after 
dinner,"  she  says  to  herself.  "  They  will  be  sure  to  make 
it  up  then."  "By  the  way,"  she  asks  her  son,  "did  I 
tell  you  that  Heronmere  had  been  down  for  a  couple  of 
days  during  your  absence  ?" 

"No,"  Guy  answers,  coldly,  not  feeling  particularly 
pleased. 

"It  was  so  pleasant,"  Dolores  says,  kindling  for  the 
first  time  into  warmth ;  "and  we  rode  and  walked  together, 
and  he  made  us  laugh ;  did  he  not,  Lady  Wentworth?" 

"Yes.  I  never  saw  a  boy  so  improved,"  answers  my 
lady;  "and  he  is  coming  down  again  very  soon." 

"He  does  not  seem  at  all  bashful,"  says  Guy,  stiffly. 
"  I  think  he  might  wait  until  he  is  asked." 

He  is  beginning  to  wonder  whether  the  change  in 
Dolores's  manner  is  in  any  way  connected  with  his  cousin's 
visit. 


LOVE  AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  367 

"Do  you  not  remember,"  interrupts  Dolores,  quickly, 
"  how  he  asked  you  if  he  might  still  come  here  as  usual, 
and  you  laughed,  and  said,  'Certainly?'  " 

"Men  don't  usually  time  their  visits  when  they  know 
the  master  of  the  house  is  absent,"  retorts  Guy. 

"He  did  not  know  it;  he  was  quite  surprised  to  find 
you  were  not  here." 

At  this  juncture  Lady  Wentworth  rises.  As  Dolores 
passes  Guy  at  the  door,  he  stretches  out  hio  hand  to  take 
hers,  but  she  either  does  not  or  will  not  see  it,  and  walks 
quietly  out  after  his  mother.  He  feels  rather  provoked, 
but  his  love  receives  a  decided  stimulus,  and  a  very  short 
time  elapses  before  he  joins  the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room. 
Dolores  is  there  alone,  but  intrenched  behind  a  small  table 
with  a  large  piece  of  work.  Guy  has  pictured  to  himself 
how  he  will  go  and  take  her  in  his  arms  and  make  his 
peace;  but  it  is  not  very  easy  to  carry  out  this  idea; 
and,  moreover,  there  is  something  in  her  manner  that 
makes  him  rather  afraid  to  hazard  the  experiment.  He 
goes  up  to  the  table  where  she  is  at  work,  and  stands 
looking  at  her  for  a  few  moments,  but  she  is  apparently 
unaware  of  his  presence,  and  immensely  engrossed  in  her 
work. 

"Dolores"  (reproachfully),  "aren't  you  glad  to  see 
me  again?" 

"Oh,  yes"  (indifferently,  not  looking  up). 

"You  have  not  even  said  how  d'you  do  to  me  yet." 

"How  do  you  do?" 

"I  don't  mean  in  words"  (smiling,  if  a  little  vexed); 
"won't  you  say  it  in  my  way?"  And  he  tries  to  take 
the  little  hand  that  is  plying  the  needle  busily. 

"Please  don't  hinder  me"  (coldly).  "I  want  very 
much  to  finish  this  to-night." 

"Nonsense"  (moving  the  table  a  little  away  with  his 


368  DOLORES. 

foot).  "May  I  not  come  and  sit  beside  you?"  (plead- 
ingly). "  This  is  the  most  comfortable  sofa  in  the  room." 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  give  it  up  to  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  should  not  like  it  then"  (getting  nearer  and 
taking  her  hand). 

She  pulls  it  sharply  from  him,  but  he  will  not  be  thwarted 
and  takes  it  with  gentle  force,  while  he  essays  to  draw  her 
to  him  with  the  other  hand.  But  she  pulls  herself  sharply 
from  him,  and  with  great  hauteur  says, — 

"  Do  you  wish  to  compel  me  to  join  your  mother,  Sir 
Guy?" 

The  young  man  is  quite  taken  aback :  he  is  utterly  un- 
prepared for  this  mode  of  attack,  but,  if  it  is  premeditated, 
it  is  certainly  very  effective. 

"My  darling,"  he  says  reproachfully,  "why  are  you  so 
unkind? — what  have  I  done  to  offend  you?" 

"I  am  not  offended." 

"Then  why  is  your  manner  so  changed  towards  me?" 

Silence. 

"Is  it"  (with  rather  a  guilty  conscience) — "is  it  be- 
cause you  think  I  ought  to  have  returned  sooner  ?  Indeed, 
I  assure  you — " 

She  looks  up  at  him  for  the  first  time,  and  there  is  a 
very  unusual  touch  of  scorn  in  her  eyes  and  voice  as  she 
says, — 

"  I  asked  you  for  no  explanation  or  excuse,  Sir  Guy. 
You  need  not  give  me  a  false  reason  for  your  stopping  in 
London,  when  I  know  the  real  one." 

He  feels  more  guilty  still,  and  is  anxious  to  excuse  him- 
self j  so,  as  usual  in  such  cases,  he  tells  half  the  truth, 
trying  to  persuade  himself  and  her  that  it  is  the  whole 
truth. 

"You  know,  dear"  (gravely),  "I  was  very  much  at- 
tached to  my  poor  uncle,  and  I  could  not  help  feeling  as 


LOVE  AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  369 

if  it  would  be  a  kind  of  disrespect  to  his  memory  to — to 
be  happy,  and  thinking  of  love  and  marriage,  while  he  was 
hardly  cold  in  his  grave." 

"Ah  !"  drawing  a  quick  breath  ;  then,  laying  her  work 
down  in  her  lap,  and  regarding  him  with  a  fixed,  steady 
gaze — "  Should  you  mind  telling  me  where  you  spent  your 
evenings  in  London?" 

It  is  a  very  rare  thing  for  Guy  to  shrink  from  meeting 
the  eyes  of  man  or  woman,  but  at  this  moment  he  is  hardly 
inclined  to  return  the  steady  gaze  that  he  feels  upon  him. 
Dissimulation  is  not  in  his  nature.  He  takes  a  book  from 
the  table,  and  answers,  somewhat  defiantly,  while  he  turns 
over  the  leaves, — 

"  There  is  only  one  house  in  London  I  should  be  likely 
to  go  to  at  such  a  time." 

"  Your  sister-in-law's?"  (with  aquivering  lip  and  flash- 
ing eyes.) 

"My  brother's"  he  replies,  with  emphasis. 

Silence  again,  interrupted  only  by  the  sharp,  hurried 
click  of  Dolores's  needle.  Presently  Guy  lays  down  the 
book,  and  turns  to  contemplation  of  her.  His  feelings  are 
of  a  mixed  nature ;  indeed,  he  would  be  puzzled  to  ana- 
lyze them  himself.  His  first  perception  is,  man-like,  that 
she  is  very  fair,  and,  now  that  he  is  with  her,  eminently 
lovable ;  not  to  be  loved,  certainly,  with  the  deep,  strong, 
lasting  passion  that — that  some  women  inspire,  but  with  a 
tender,  kindly,  protecting  feeling  that  has  its  charm ; 
secondly,  he  feels  guilty  towards  her,  and  wishes  to  atone 
for  his  neglect ;  and  thirdly,  he  is  a  little  indignant  that 
she  should  question  his  actions  so  sharply,  and  seem  to  ask 
an  account  of  them.  But  most  of  all  his  feeling  towards 
her  is  that  of  indulgence  and  compassion  ;  so  it  is  not  long 
before  he  speaks  again  to  her  in  a  caressing  voice. 

"  I  think,  little  one,  you  are  hardly  kind  to  me.  I  have 
Y 


370 


DOLORES. 


been  more  unhappy  than  I  can  tell  you,  and  I  thought  at 
least  to  have  had  your  sympathy. ' ' 

"You  did  not  want  my  sympathy,"  she  retorts  quickly ; 
"  you  never  thought  of  coming  to  me  for  it ;  you  went,  as 
every  one  goes,  to  the  person  they  love  most  for  that." 
He  is  about  to  interrupt  her,  but  she  continues,  with  a 
flushed  face  and  passionate  voice — "Do  you  know  to  whom 
I  should  turn  first,  if  any  trouble  came  to  me  ? — do  you 
know  who  could  console  me  for  any  grief  or  trouble  in  the 
world  ?  Oh,  yes,  you  know  quite  well,  and  that  is  why 
you  care  so  little." 

The  tears  course  down  her  cheeks.  This  time  Guy  will 
not  be  denied,  and  takes  strong  possession  of  the  tremb- 
ling little  frame,  and,  whether  she  will  or  not,  kisses  the 
tears  off  her  face.  So,  for  a  few  moments  she  submits, 
and  lays  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  tastes  once  more 
the  happiness  of  feeling  his  strong  arms  about  her.  But 
this  is  not  the  programme  that  she  has  mapped  out  to  her- 
self throughout  all  those  bitter  days  and  sleepless  nights, 
and  presently,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  she  conquers  her  strong 
desire  to  lay  still  and  rest,  and  fight  no  more  against  her 
love,  and,  disengaging  herself  resolutely  from  his  embrace, 
she  walks  away,  then  returns,  and  stands  before  him. 
He  sees  that  her  anger  is  not  appeased,  and  so  prepares  to 
hear  it  flow  forth  in  bitter  words,  and  to  combat  it  only 
with  kindness.  She  tries  to  speak  calmly,  but  the  quiver- 
ing of  her  lips  and  throat  makes  her  words  hardly  intel- 
ligible. 

"I  cannot  go  on  suffering — to  love  very  much  is  to 
suffer — my  heart  breaks  with  it — I  am  tortured  always — I 
have  waited  until  you  returned — I  would  not  vex  or  com- 
plain to  your  mother,  who  is  so  good ;  but  let  me  go 
away — I  can  bear  no  more." 

Guy  sighs  heavily.     In  this  moment  he  sees  before  him, 


LOVE  AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  371 

and  before  her  too,  a  vista  of  wretchedness,  of  perpetual 
reproach  and  recrimination.  He  has  been  prepared  to 
take  her  to  his  heart  and  home,  because  she  has  loved  him 
and  suffered  for  his  sake ;  but  he  is  not  prepared  to  take 
her  as  a  hard  taskmaster,  who  can  call  him  to  account  for 
every  word  and  action  of  his  future  life.  From  a  sense 
of  honor,  and  for  pity's  sake,  he  has  been  ready  to  sacri- 
fice all  to  her,  and  is  she  to  exact  from  him  as  much  as 
though  their  positions  were  entirely  reversed?  He  is 
touched  with  pity  by  her  tears  and  sobbing  voice,  but  he 
knows  a  time  will  come  when  they  will  bring  only  weari- 
ness and  disgust.  How  shall  he  find  words  kind  and 
tender  enough  to  warn  her  of  the  misery  she  is  preparing 
for  them,  without  adding  to  her  present  bitterness  ?  He 
scarcely  notices  her  words ;  not  in  the  very  least  does  he 
take  her  threat  of  going  away  in  a  literal  sense — where 
should  she  go  ?  So,  after  a  silence  of  a  few  moments,  he 
says  to  her,  in  a  very  grave,  sad  voice, — 

"  Child,  I  don't  suppose  you  dream  for  a  moment  what 
misery  you  are  preparing  for  both  of  us.  If  a  husband 
and  wife  have  no  confidence  in  each  other,  nothing  but 
wretchedness  can  ensue.  My  first  desire  has  been,  and 
always  will  be,  to  make  you  happy ;  but  if  you  mean  to 
make  my  life  wretched  with  constant  and  unjust  reproaches, 
God  help  us  both  !" 

He  has  never  spoken  sternly  to  her  before,  and  she 
looks  at  him  with  frightened  eyes ;  but  she  has  a  fixed 
purpose  in  her  head,  which  has  grown  out  of  the  painful 
days  since  he  left  her. 

"You  need  not  fear"  (with  a  trembling  voice);  "I 
shall  reproach  you  no  more,  for  I  shall  not  have  any 
right." 

"  Why  do  you  talk  like  this  ?"  (a  little  wearily).  "  You 
will  always  have  the  right,  if  you  choose  to  consider  it  a 


372 


DOLORES. 


right,  to  embitter  the  life  of  a  man  whose  only  desire  is 
to  make  you  happy." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  have  been  kind — most  kind."  Guy 
is  about  to  interrupt  her,  but  she  makes  a  gesture,  and 
continues :  "  I  have  known  it  from  the  first.  Do  not 
think  I  was  ever  deceived.  It  was  pity  made  you  ask 
me  to  be  your  wife,  and  it  was  kind  and  noble  of  you ; 
but  you  never  have  once  loved  me.  I  wearied  you  always ; 
you  regretted  it  always — sometimes  more,  sometimes  less ; 
and  I  know  not  why,  but  it  was  so  dear  to  me  to  be  with 
you,  to  see  you,  and  to  feel  that  I  should  belong  to  you 
and  never  part  from  you  any  more,  I  tried  to  blind  my- 
self, and,  oh"  (clasping  her  hands  tight),  "  that  time  here 
before  you  went  to  London  was  like  heaven,  happier  than 
any  other  heaven  I  could  fancy,  for  I  thought  you  were 
growing  to  care  a  little  for  me,  to  be  glad  to  be  with 
me." 

"And  so  I  was,  darling — so  I  do,"  cries  the  young 
man,  infinitely  touched. 

"No"  (decisively,  recoiling  from  him).  "When  you 
went  away,  when  you  saw  her,  the  little  you  had  begun 
to  care  for  me  ceased.  I  knew  by  your  short  letters, 
by  your  long  silences,  that  it  wearied  you  to  think  of  me, 
that  I  had  become  a  burden  to  you.  And  I  tell  you" 
(with  kindling  cheeks)  "that  all  the  misery  I  ever  felt  in 
Rouen  was — oh,  not  to  be  compared  with  what  I  have 
felt  in  this  house ;  and  that  all  the  joy  and  happiness  I 
have  had  here  could  not  repay  me  for  it,  or  blot  it  out  of 
my  mind.  You  say  I  am  making  misery  for  us  both — it 
is  true  ;  but  I  will  make  it  no  more ;  and  your  misery — 
what  would  that  be  to  mine  ?  Only  one  you  love  very 
much  could  make  you  so  miserable — she  might — I  could 
not." 

"For  God's  sake,  child,"  cries  Guy,  deeply  shocked, 


LOVE  AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  373 

"  do  not  talk  like  this !  Do  you  remember  that  you  are 
speaking  of  my  brother's  wife?  I  cannot  conceive  what 
has  put  this  delusion  into  your  head ;  but,  if  you  value 
my  love  or  esteem,  I  beg  you  never  to  hint  at  it  again." 

Dolores  colors  deeply  at  his  reproof,  but  she  replies, 
looking  him  full  in  the  face, — 

"Will  you  swear  that  you  do  not  love  her? — yes,  love 
her  in  the  way  that  I  love  you?" 

It  is  his  turn  to  redden,  but  he  strives  to  hide  what  he 
feels  under  the  cover  of  anger. 

"Whatever  I  may  have  felt  for  my  brother's  wife  be- 
fore her  marriage,  her  engagement  to  him — I  trust  you 
will  give  me  credit  for  a  stronger  sense  of  honor  than  to 
cherish  feelings  that  would  be  as  displeasing  to  her  as 
dishonorable  to  myself." 

"But  can  you  help  it?"  says  the  girl,  sorrowfully. 
"Which  is  stronger — love  or  honor?  And  would  one 
love  when  it  only  brings  pain,  if  one  could  help  it?" 

He  is  silent,  wondering  that  this  child  should  be  thus 
learned  in  the  lore  of  love  and  suffering.  Presently  he 
says,  rousing  himself, — 

"  My  dear  child,  I  entreat  you  to  put  all  these  foolish 
thoughts  out  of  your  head,  and  let  us  be  happy  together. 
I  am  sure  you  can  make  me  happy,  and  I  will  do  my  best 
to  make  you  so." 

"  No,"  she  answers,  shaking  her  head.  And  at  thia 
moment  Lady  Wentworth  enters  the  room. 


374  DOLORES. 

CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

MILLY   PLEADS. 

WHEN  Guy  has  left  her,  Mflly  does  not  return  to  the 
room  where  Adrian  is,  nor  does  she  on  that  day  recur  to 
the  subject  of  Norway.  She  is  quite  conscious  that  her 
best  plan  is  to  let  the  idea  wear  itself  out ;  but  her  anx- 
iety is  so  great  that  the  following  day  she  determines  to 
know  the  worst.  Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  opposition. 
She  is  bent  on  winning  her  way  by  fair  means.  It  seems 
hard  that  she,  who  has  been  so  spoiled,  whose  lightest 
wish  has  been  law  to  so  many,  should  have  to  entreat  and 
implore  now — hardest  of  all  because  the  entreaty  is  to  a 
man  not  to  leave  her.  She  who  has  always  been  called 
so  charming,  the  pleasantest  company  in  the  world  ! — it 
is  bitter  to  find  how  few  charms  her  society  has  for  the 
one  man  whom  she  cares  to  please. 

But  to-night  she  is  bent  on  conquest.  She  attires  her- 
self in  a  dress  her  lord  has  been  pleased  to  admire.  More 
important  still,  she  orders  the  dishes  that  he  likes  best  for 
his  dinner,  exerts  herself  to  the  utmost  to  amuse  him 
while  he  dines,  and  finally  herself  lights  his  cigar,  and 
seats  herself  at  his  feet  while  he  enjoys  it.  Her  loving 
little  artifices  are  rewarded  by  success.  Her  sultan  is  in 
charming  humor,  compliments  her  on  her  looks,  and 
strokes  her  dark  hair  caressingly.  This  is  the  moment 
to  broach  the  subject,  and  her  heart  beats  fast  as  she 
begins. 

"I  wonder  what  put  it  into  Guy's  head  to  go  off  to 
Norway  ?' ' 


MILL  Y  PLEADS. 


375 


"  Bored  at  Wentworth,  I  suppose.  It  is  a  horrid  bore 
to  be  kicking  one's  heels  about  a  country-house  in  the 
summer  months.  Deuced  unlucky  for  that  poor  little  girl, 
the  old  man  going  off  just  now !  I  shouldn't  wonder, 
Milly,  if  your  ruse  succeeds,  and  he  does  not  marry  her 
at  all.  You  are  a  tremendously  clever  woman"  (ad- 
miringly). 

The  blood  rushes  to  Milly's  face. 

"  Oh,  Adrian,  do  not  say  that !  I  was  not  serious. 
Guy  is  far  too  honorable  to  think  of  drawing  back  now." 

"But  you  thought  it  might  happen  if  he  only  had  time 
enough,"  persists  Adrian.  "And  I  don't  think  it  would 
be  half  a  bad  thing  for  her  if  he  did  give  her  up.  I  am 
morally  certain  that  Heronmere  would  marry  her  to- 
morrow, with  or  without  his  mother's  consent,  as  the  case 
might  be.  I  saw  him  a  few  days  ago.  He  had  just  come 
up  from  Wentworth,  and  was  evidently  in  a  very  hope- 
less state,  abusing  Guy  tremendously,  and  declaring  he 
was  not  worthy  of  such  a  prize.  You  know,  Milly,  it's 
deuced  odd  how  that  little  girl  takes  with  everybody, 
and  how  they  all  seem  to  forget  the  doubtful  nature  of 
her  antecedents." 

"I  wish,"  says  Milly,  thoughtfully,  "that  she  would 
take  a  fancy  to  Lord  Heronmere.  I  do  not  think  either 
she  or  Guy  will  be  particularly  happy  if  they  marry." 

"The  fact  is,  Milly,"  utters  Adrian,  with  his  languid 
smile,  "  you  would  rather  any  body  married  any  one  than 
Guy ;  you  want  to  keep  him  all  to  yourself.  It's  rather 
a  good  thing  for  you  both  that  I  am  not  of  a  jealous  dis- 
position." 

She  looks  up  at  him  with  a  radiant  face,  her  beautiful 
eyes  eloquent  with  love. 

"I  wish  you  were  jealous,"  she  says,  putting  her  hand 
in  his;  "I  wish  vou  would  forbid  me  ever  to  look  at  a 


376  DOLORES. 

man  again,  that  I  might  show  you  how  much  I  love  you, 
and  how  utterly  indifferent  I  am  to  every  other  man  in 
the  world." 

"A  likely  story,"  he  retorts,  laughing. 

"But,  Adrian,"  returning  to  her  subject,  "when  you 
talked  of  going  to  Norway  with  Guy,  you  were  only  laugh- 
ing, were  you?"  (caressingly). 

"  Indeed,  I  was  perfectly  serious.  I  am  getting  fright- 
fully bored  here,  and  I  have  a  sort  of  fancy  to  sit  in  a 
boat  and  haul  in  big  salmon  again,  and  to  see  the  water 
swirling  about  the  rocks,  and  to  go  to  bed  by  daylight  at 
midnight." 

"But"  (her  voice  trembling  a  little)  "you  have  told 
me,  over  and  over  again,  how  you  hate  the  whole  thing 
— the  dull  old  Norse  towns,  and  the  general  discomfort 
— jolting  about  in  carrioles,  and  living  on  preserved 
meats,  in  a  log  house,  with  bare  boards.  And  how  bored 
you  will  be  in  the  evenings,  with  no  one  to  play  cards 
with!" 

"  Oh,  I  shall  ask  Thorneycroft  to  go;  Guy  won't  mind. 
He  and  I  are  pretty  even  at  ecarti  ;  and  very  likely  I  shall 
sleep  all  day  and  fish  all  night." 

"  I  thought  you  were  so  devoted  to  London !  You  used 
to  say  it  was  the  only  place  in  the  world,  except  in  the 
shooting  and  hunting  season." 

"I  used  to  think  so"  (leisurely  puffing  the  smoke  in 
wreaths  above  Milly's  head);  "but,  although  you  are  a 
very  charming  woman,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  must 
think  that  London  doesn't  present  quite  so  many  charms 
to  a  man  once  he  gets  married.  This  time  last  year" 
(sighing)  "I  found  it  pleasant  enough." 

He  does  not  intend  it,  but  his  words  wound  Milly  to 
the  quick.  She  turns  away,  to  conceal  the  tears  that 
spring  to  her  eyes.  She  sees,  moreover,  that  he  has  made 


MILLY  PLEADS.  377 

up  his  mind  to  go,  and  there  is  but  one  resource  left ;  she 
has  hardly  much  faith  in  it. 

"Adrian,"  she  says,  putting  both  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  utter  entreaty,  "my  dar- 
ling, I  beseech  you  don't  go;  it  will  break  my  heart.  If 
you  care  the  least  bit  in  the  world  for  me,  don't  go  ;  or, 
if  you  want  change,  take  me  with  you,  and  I  will  go  any- 
where in  the  world  you  like." 

Adrian  abhors  a  scene.  He  hates  anything  that  disturbs 
his  comfort;  so  he  turns  from  his  wife's  embrace,  and 
says,  rather  coldly, — 

"I  don't  think  your  suggestion  is  a  very  practical  one. 
If  I  went  to  Norway  at  my  own  expense,  and  took  you,  it 
would  cost  a  fortune  ;  and  now  I  can  go  in  Guy's  yacht, 
without  any  trouble  or  expense  at  all.  And,  as  I  only 
propose  being  away  a  month  or  six  weeks,  I  really  do  not 
see  what  objection  you  have  to  make." 

"I  should  be  miserable  all  the  time,"  sobs  Milly.  "I 
should  think  you  were  drowned,  or  something  had  hap- 
pened to  you." 

"  Well"  (with  a  not  very  pleasant  laugh),  "  you  would 
soon  console  yourself  with  a  third,  no  doubt ;  you  were 
very  fond  of  your  first  husband,  I  have  heard,  but  you 
seemed  extremely  cheerful  and  happy  when  I  met  you." 

Milly  is  deeply  angered.  She  starts  to  her  feet,  and 
says,  with  flashing  eyes, — 

"  You  are  cruel  and  unmanly  !  You  have  no  right  to 
leave  me.  Why  did  you  marry  me,  if  you  meant  to  make 
me  wretched?" 

"  Indeed"  (with  a  sneering  smile),  "I  don't  know  why 
I  did.  If  I  had  my  time  over  again,  I  would  not,  if  you 

had  three  times "  "the  money,"  he  was  going  to  add, 

but  a  certain  small  instinct  of  gentlemanlike  feeling  makes 
him  pause. 

32* 


378  DOLORES. 

But  there  is  no  need  for  him  to  finish  the  sentence— 
Milly  knows  the  words  that  were  on  his  lips.  She  looks 
at  him  for  a  moment  as  if  she  were  turned  to  stone,  and 
then,  opening  the  door  very  quietly,  goes  out. 

Adrian  finishes  his  cigar,  puts  on  his  hat,  and  betakes 
himself  to  a  house  in  Curzon  Street,  where  we  have 
already  once  accompanied  him.  The  lady  who  owns  it 
is  at  home,  and  receives  him  with  a  look  of  unmistakable 
welcome. 

"My  dear  Henrietta,"  he  says,  with  the  smile  that 
Milly  has  not  seen  these  many  days,  "I  am  so  charmed 
you  are  at  home  !  I  was  horribly  afraid  you  would  be  at 
che  opera,  or  dining  out.  Give  me  my  own  particular 
chair,  and  one  of  your  best  cigars,  and  a  brandy  and 
soda,  and  let  me  unburden  my  mind  to  you.  Are  you 
prepared  to  lend  a  sympathizing  ear  to  all  my  woes  ?' ' 

"Are  they  many?" 

"Yes,  many  and  great,  although  only  the  consequences 
of  one  piece  of  folly." 

Henrietta  smiles  to  herself.  Some  of  her  friends  have 
not  returned  to  her  after  their  marriage,  but  more  have ; 
this  is  one  she  knows :  well,  it  had  been  only  a  question 
of  time,  though  she  hardly  expected  him  so  soon. 

"Why  did  I  ever  marry?"  says  Adrian,  plaintively — 
"or  why  didn't  I  marry  you?  What  a  charming  wife 
you  would  make,  Henrietta  !  You  would  never  be  exact- 
ing, never  keep  a  man  tied  to  your  apron -stri  ng ;  you 
would  know  the  only  way  was  to  give  him  his  head, 
and  take  care  he  never  felt  the  curb — wouldn't  you?" 
(caressingly). 

Mrs.  Clayton  looks  at  him  with  a  smile,  half  kind,  half 
bitter.  She  is  a  strange,  wayward  woman,  although  she 
has  learned,  in  many  hard  lessons,  the  supreme  value  of 
tact,  and  has  practiced  it  for  years  with  the  greatest  pos- 


MILL  Y  PLEADS. 


379 


sible  advantage.  Once,  now  and  then,  it  pleases  her  to 
speak  out  truthfully  and  honestly;  it  is  quite  safe,  too, 
for  when  she  does  no  one  believes  her. 

"Did  you  ever  hear,"  she  says,  ''that  I  was  separated 
from  my  husband  for  years  before  he  died  ?" 

"  No — yes — 'pon  my  soul  I  hardly  remember.  At  all 
events,  I  am  quite  sure  it  was  his  fault." 

"  You  would  not  think  so.  It  was  just  for  the  very 
reason  that  we  were  speaking  of — because  I  would  not  let 
him  go  anywhere  without  me;  because  I  was  horribly  jeal- 
ous of  him  and  could  not  bear  him  out  of  my  sight ; — 
because,  in  short,  I  loved  him,  and  showed  it  in  the  way 
that  women  of  my  disposition  generally  do." 

Adrian  looks  at  her  in  languid  surprise,  then  says, 
with  a  smile  and  shake  of  the  head, — 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  Henrietta;  you  are  a  capital 
actress,  and  you  delight  in  surprising  one ;  but  that  sort 
of  thing  isn't  your  line,  and  never  was,  I'll  lay  a  thou- 
sand to  one." 

She  laughs.  Her  momentary  emotion  has  passed  away, 
and  she  says, — 

"  At  all  events,  I  should  know  better  now.  With  your 
sex  there  is  but  one  way :  if  we  want  you  to  worship  us, 
we  must  be  quite  indifferent  to  you ;  and  the  worse  we 
treat  you,  the  better  you  will  behave  to  us." 

"All  we  want  is  to  be  let  alone — let  us  go  our  own 
way,  and  we  shall  not  interfere  with  you." 

"But  who  can  let  alone  what  they  love?"  asks  Hen- 
rietta. 

"  Love,  my  dear ! — but  there  is  no  love  in  the  question 
— not,  at  least,  as  I  understand  it.  You  do  all  that  sort 
of  thing  before  you  marry,  and  then  you  want  to  subside 
into  a  quiet,  easy-going  sort  of  life,  without  strong  emo- 
tions— which,  by  the  way,  always  bored  me — and  I  look 


380  DOLORES. 

upon  it  as  a  merciful  dispensation  of  Providence  when 
you  are  tolerably  satisfied  with  the  wife  you've  got,  and 
don't  want  anybody  else's,  or  that  sort  of  thing,  you 
know." 

"But  I  have  not  heard  the  grievance  yet." 
"Ah,  yes,  the  grievance.  Well,  I'm  getting  utterly 
sick  of  London;  and  Guy  is  going  to  Norway,  and  I 
mean  to  go  with  him.  My  wife  is  pleased  to  fancy  she 
can't  live  without  me,  and  has  just  treated  me  to  a 
Iremendous  scene.  Why  on  earth  is  it  part  of  the  role 
of  a  devoted  wife  to  be  always  quarreling  with  one? — 
and  why  does  she  consider  it  part  of  the  business  to  be 
everlastingly  tacked  on  to  one  ?  I  should  think  it  the 
greatest  relief  in  the  world  to  get  away  from  each  other 
every  now  and  then,  and  forget  'the  chains  that  gall.'  " 
"The  old  story,"  Henrietta  thinks  to  herself,  bitterly. 
"Why  do  we  waste  so  much  love  upon  them,  when  they 
value  it  so  little?  I  suppose  because  we  cannot  help  it." 
But  she  does  not  speak  her  thoughts  aloud. 

"  I  thought  Guy  was  going  to  be  married  almost  imme- 
diately?" 

"  So  he  was ;  but  his  uncle  died,  you  know.     Did  you 
not  see  it  in  the  paper?" 

"  No.     So  that  has  put  off  the  marriage  ?" 
"I  don't  think  he  is  very  keen  about  it." 
"She  is  very  pretty.     He  brought  her  to  see  me  one 
day.     And  she  is  very  fond  of  him.     I  am  afraid  it  runs 
in  the  family  not  to  value  what  you  have." 
"Looks  like  it,  doesn't  it?" 
"  But  what  does  she  say  to  his  going  to  Norway?" 
"  I  haven't  heard  yet ;  but  I  shall  be  very  much  sur- 
prised if  she  takes  it  quietly.     I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she 
gives  him  up  and  takes  Heronmere." 
"What  would  his  mother  say?" 


MILLY  PLEADS.  381 

"Wouldn't  like  it  a  bit,  of  course.  But  he  is  his  own 
master." 

"  And  you  think  he  would  marry  her?" 

''Like  a  shot." 

"Life  is  a  strange  thing,"  remarks  Mrs.  Clayton,  re- 
flectively. "But,  apropos  of  yourself,  if  your  wife  objects 
so  strongly  to  your  going,  shall  you  still  go?" 

"Of  course  I  shall — it  will  simplify  matters  for  another 
time.  If  I  gave  in  now,  I  should  be  in  bondage  forever. 
It  isn't  that  I  care  very  much  about  it.  I  know  I  shall  be 
horribly  bored  long  before  a  month ;  but  I  want  to  taste 
the  sweets  of  freedom  once  more." 

"  Yet  every  one  tells  me  your  wife  is  one  of  the  most 
charming  women  in  London." 

"I  dare  say"  (indifferently).  "Men  like  her;  but 
then  they're  not  married  to  her,  you  know.  That  makes 
such  a  tremendous  difference.  She  can  be  amusing  and 
pleasant,  and  all  that,  but  she  has  the  devil's  own  temper ; 
and  of  course  no  one  sees  that  but  the  wretched  hus- 
band." 

Mrs.  Clayton  feels  sorry  in  her  heart  for  Milly ;  but  it  is 
not  a  part  of  her  system  to  champion  the  wives  of  the  men 
she  likes.  So  presently  she  changes  the  subject,  and  they 
fall  into  all  manner  of  pleasant  chat,  so  that,  when  the 
clock  strikes  one,  Adrian  is  loth  to  believe  it,  and  rises  to 
take  his  leave  with  reluctance. 

"  Good -by,  Henrietta,"  he  says,  kissing  her  hand. 
"  I  wish  I  had  married  you.  Would  you  have  had  me?" 

"I  dare  say,"  she  answers,  looking  up  into  his  hand- 
some face,  and  sighing;  "and  have  been  wretched  ever 
after!" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it :  we  should  have  been  like  turtle- 
doves." 

"  We  don't  know  what  the  inner  life  of  turtle-doves 


382  DOLORES. 

may  be,"  she  answers,  laughing.     "  Good-night,  and  bon 
voyage,  if  I  do  not  see  you  again  before  you  go." 
"But  you  will.     Good-night,  ma  chere" 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

DOLORES    RESOLVES. 

EXCEPT  the  first  few  days,  all  the  time  of  Guy's  absence 
Dolores  has  been  fighting  with  her  love  for  him.  She  is 
young  and  inexperienced,  but  she  has  strong  instincts, 
and  these  tell  her  the  bitter  truth,  that  her  love  is  be- 
stowed in  vain,  and  that  Guy  is  only  going  to  marry  her 
from  pity  and  because  he  has  given  his  word.  If  she  ac- 
cepts this  sacrifice,  if  she  burdens  his  life  with  hers,  will 
he  not  one  day,  perhaps,  hate  her?  With  her  love  for 
him  is  mingled  a  not  unnatural  resentment  at  his  indiffer- 
ence to  her.  It  is  hard  for  those  who  are  always  hearing 
themselves  praised,  to  feel  their  charms  have  no  influence 
on  the  one  of  all  others  in  whose  eyes  they  long  to  seem 
fair.  For  many  days  and  nights  she  has  been  fighting 
against  her  love — trying  with  all  her  might  to  bring  her 
reluctant  heart  to  consent  to  the  displacement  of  its  idol. 
How  can  she  willingly  cut  herself  off  from  a  future  which 
has  seemed  like  heaven  to  her,  and  in  which  the  dearest 
thought  has  been  that  she  will  be  always  with  him?  If 
she  gives  him  up,  what  has  she  to  look  forward  to?  No- 
thing but  banishment  from  the  new  and  brilliant  life  to 
which  he  has  introduced  her.  She  will  have  to  give  up 
all  her  new  friends,  and  go  back  to  the  dull  old  life,  which 
will  be  ten  times  duller  and  lonelier  now  she  has  known 


DOLORES  RESOLVES.  383 

a  different  one.  And  there  will  be  no  Philip  to  try  to 
make  it  happier.  Poor  Philip  ! — she  wonders,  with  a  kind 
of  awe,  if  he  has  suffered  as  she  does,  and  if  this  is  a  pun- 
ishment on  her  for  the  pain  she  has  inflicted  on  him.  In 
the  selfishness  of  her  happiness  she  has  thought  so  little 
of  him,  but  now  it  all  comes  back  to  her. 

As  the  days  go  by,  and  Guy's  letters  are  so  few  and 
short,  she  plucks  up  her  pride.  She  will  give  him  up — 
no  matter  what  it  costs.  If  she  dies  of  grief  afterwards, 
she  will  not  thrust  herself  upon  a  man  who  cares  so  little 
for  her.  As  soon  as  he  returns  she  will  tell  him  so,  and 
then  there  will  be  nothing  left  but  to  say  good-by  to  his 
mother,  who  has  been  so  kind  to  her,  and  whom  she  has 
grown  to  love,  and  to  leave  all  these  good  things  that 
were  to  have  been  hers.  Somewhere,  perhaps,  in  her  se- 
cret heart,  she  has  a  hope  that  he  will  not  really  let  her 
go,  and  that,  when  they  meet  again,  pleasant  days,  like 
those  before  he  left  Wentworth,  may  come  over  again ; 
but  she  does  not  admit  the  hope — only  says  resolutely  to 
herself  that  all  is  over.  And  on  the  night  of  Guy's  re- 
turn, after  what  has  passed  between  them,  she  knows  that 
it  must  be  so.  Lady  Wentworth's  entrance  has  prevented 
her  telling  him  then  what  she  has  resolved,  but  there  will 
be  plenty  of  time  on  the  morrow. 

Guy  has  not  the  very  faintest  inkling  of  her  intention. 
He  had  rather  expected  a  scene,  although  not  such  a  one 
as  had  actually  taken  place,  and  he  is  shocked  and  horri- 
fied at  her  allusion  to  Milly.  When  his  mother  enters, 
he  goes  away  into  the  garden,  and  down  the  terrace  into 
the  park.  There,  as  he  paces  up  and  down,  he  interro- 
gates himself  sharply.  How  is  it  possible  that  this  child 
has  fathomed  his  feelings  ?  Has  there  been  anything  in 
his  conduct  towards  his  sister-in-law,  absent  or  present, 
to  lead  any  one  to  the  conclusion  that  he  loves  her  ?  If 


384  DOLORES. 

there  has  been,  he  feels  he  can  never  forgive  himself.  It 
is  true  that  he  has  been  passionately  in  love  with  her,  that 
he  admires  her  more  than  any  woman  he  has  ever  seen, 
that  he  would  have  given  up  everything  he  possessed  in 
the  world  to  have  made  her  his  wife,  that  she  has  an  in- 
fluence over  him  still  that  would  prevent  his  ever  caring 
much  for  any  other  woman ;  but  he  can  lay  his  hand  on 
his  heart  and  say  that,  as  his  brother's  wife,  he  has  never 
had  a  dishonorable  thought  towards  her,  that  he  looks 
upon  her  with  an  unalterable  respect  and  devotion,  and 
that  he  knows  her  to  be  as  far  removed  from  him  as 
though  she  were  an  angel  in  heaven.  And  yet  this  child, 
who,  perhaps,  in  the  innocence  of  her  heart,  does  not  re- 
alize the  nature  of  the  thing  with  which  she  taxes  him  so 
boldly,  has  discovered  what  he  will  not  even  own  to  him- 
self. He  must  try  to  conquer  her  jealousy,  and  there  is 
only  one  way  of  doing  it,  he  tells  himself,  with  a  sigh — 
by  keeping  entirely  away  from  Milly.  It  is  the  first  time 
he  realizes  how  much  his  sacrifice  is  costing  him ;  never- 
theless, it  must  be  made,  and  in  the  end,  perhaps  it  will 
be  better  for  his  own  sake  too.  Another  thought  comes 
to  trouble  him.  If  Dolores  is  angered  and  hurt  at  this 
short  absence,  how  will  she  bear  the  news  of  his  going  to 
Norway?  He  will  get  his  mother  to  break  it  to  her — 
anything  rather  than  face  a  scene  like  to-night's. 

When  he  returns  to  the  drawing-room,  his  mother  is 
there  alone. 

"Where  is  Dolores?"  he  asks. 

"She  has  gone  to  bed."  (After  a  moment's  silence) 
"  Guy,  what  has  happened  between  you  ?  The  poor  child 
seems  very  much  out  of  spirits — indeed,  she  has  lost  all 
her  roses,  and  I  was  quite  concerned  to  see  how  much  she 
took  your  absence  to  heart." 

"I  think  she  is  a  little  unreasonable,"  Guy  answers. 


DOLORES  RESOLVES. 


385 


"  She  ought  to  understand  that  we  cannot  have  everything 
exactly  one's  own  way  in  this  world.  Mother"  (abruptly), 
"I  am  going  to  Norway  next  week." 

Lady  Wentworth  looks  up  in  unfeigned  surprise. 

"Are  you  serious,  Guy?" 

"Perfectly"  (with  slight  irritation).  "Of  course  our 
marriage  will  have  to  be  postponed,  and  I  really  cannot  go 
on  hanging  about  the  country  all  the  summer  months  with 
nothing  to  do.  I  propose  going  to  Norway  for  a  couple  of 
months  or  so,  coming  back  here  to  shoot  partridges  and 
pheasants,  and  then,  about  the  middle  of  October,  getting 
married,  and  going  somewhere  for  a  month,  and  coming 
back  for  hunting.  Do  you  see  what  else  I  can  do  ?' ' 

"I  suppose  you  told  Dolores  to-night,  and  that  has 
made  her  unhappy?" 

"  No,  indeed,  I  have  not  mentioned  it ;  all  her  dis- 
pleasure concerns  my  recent  absence,  I  presume.  I  was 
going  to  ask  you  to  break  my  Norway  expedition  to  her." 

Lady  Wentworth  looks  at  her  son  very  earnestly  for  a 
minute,  then  away,  as  if  irresolute ;  but  finally  she  makes 
up  her  mind  to  speak. 

"You  know,  Guy,  when  you  first  broached  it  to  me,  I 
was  very  much  opposed  to  your  marriage,  but  since  I  have 
known  Dolores,  and  have  seen  her  intense  devotion  to 
you,  I  feel  differently.  Poor  child !  she  is  far  too  fond 
of  you  for  her  own  peace  of  mind,  and,  knowing  this, 
you  ought  to  be  very  careful  not  to  wound  her.  She  is 
very  sweet  and  lovable,  and  I  must  confess  that  she  has 
won  her  way  to  my  heart  more  than  I  should  have  thought 
it  possible  for  a  stranger  to  do  in  my  old  age.  There  are, 
of  course,  objections  to  the  marriage,  but  you  have  gone 
too  far  to  draw  back,  and,  since  she  is  your  affianced  wife, 
you  owe  her  some  consideration,  and  have  no  right  wan- 
tonly to  cause  her  unhappiness." 
Z  33 


386  DOLORES. 

After  this  peroration,  Lady  Wentworth  looks  at  Guy 
with  some  anxiety. 

"My  dear  mother,"  he  answers,  with  some  warmth, 
"  there  is  reason  in  everything,  and  surely,  because  a  man 
is  engaged  to  marry  a  woman,  he  is  not  reduced  to  such  a 
state  of  bondage  as  to  cease  entirely  to  be  a  free  agent  ? 
It  surely  is  not  well  to  make  a  tie  more  irksome  than 
necessary,  and  I  think,  if  you  were  to  give  a  hint  of  the 
kind  to  Dolores,  it  might  be  a  good  thing  for  both  of  us." 

Lady  Wentworth  shakes  her  head,  then,  after  a  pause, 
says, — 

"Why  not  marry  her  at  the  time  you  first  proposed? 
— only  have  a  very  quiet  wedding." 

"  No"  (resolutely) ;  "  no  one  shall  accuse  me  of  slight- 
ing the  memory  of  the  man  who  was  a  second  father  to 
me." 

"Well,  my  dear"  (with  a  sigh),  "it  must  be  as  you 
choose ;  but  I  fear  Dolores  will  feel  your  absence  very 
keenly.  And  I  cannot  help  thinking  it  will  be  better 
for  you  to  break  it  to  her  yourself;  she  would  be  less 
likely  to  resent  it." 

Guy  does  not  think  so,  but  refrains  from  pressing  the 
matter. 

All  the  next  day  he  sees  very  little  of  Dolores;  she 
seems  to  avoid  him,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  rather 
shrinks  from  a  tete-d,-tete  with  her.  But  after  dinner,  the 
evening  being  warm  and  beautiful,  he  proposes  to  her  to 
go  into  the  garden  ;  and  she,  having  also  something  to  say 
to  him,  consents.  The  daylight  has  scarcely  gone  yet ; 
there  is  still  a  faint  reflex  of  red  clouds  ;  the  air  is  heavy 
with  the  scent  of  roses,  and  the  nightingales  are  singing 
the  prelude  to  their  nightly  concert.  Far  away  sounds 
the  occasional  note  of  the  cuckoo ;  everything  reminds 
one  of  spring.  It  is  such  a  night  as  should  make  one  feel 


DOLORES  RESOLVES.  387 

glad  only  to  be  alive.  Guy  passes  the  girl's  hand  through 
his  arm,  and  they  walk  together  across  the  lawn,  among 
the  flowers,  down  to  the  lake,  in  which  the  moon  is  be- 
ginning to  show  her  face. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  our  English  summer  evenings, 
little  Frenchwoman?"  he  asks  her,  gayly. 

"You  have  everything  to  make  them  beautiful,"  she 
answers — "all  your  lovely  trees  and  flowers.  I  dare  say 
they  are  as  fair  in  France,  only  I  never  lived  in  a  chateau 
there,  and  cannot  tell." 

"Would  you  rather  live  in  a  French  chateau?  I  be- 
lieve you  only  look  upon  England  as  a  stepmother,  and 
France  lies  nearest  your  heart.  Are  you  getting  home- 
sick ?  I  shall  have  to  take  you  to  Rouen  for  our  wedding- 
trip." 

He  speaks  gayly,  for  he  wants  to  get  her  into  a  good 
humor  before  he  breaks  his  disagreeable  news.  They  have 
reached  the  water,  and  are  looking  down  at  the  great  lily- 
leaves  clustering  upon  its  breast. 

"  Shall  we  go  on  the  water  this  lovely  night?" 

"Yes." 

He  helps  her  into  the  boat  that  lies  close  by,  looses  it 
from  its  moorings,  and  they  drift  out  on  the  broad  sheet 
of  water.  On  the  side  they  have  left,  a  smooth-shaven 
lawn  leads  down  to  the  edge,  and  on  the  opposite  one  there 
is  a  great  belt  of  trees,  on  which  the  moon  is  shining. 
Guy  pulls  the  boat  along  lazily,  and  Dolores  lies  half  re- 
clined, watching  the  moonlight  on  the  rippling  water. 

Presently  he  draws  in  the  oars  and  comes  nearer  to  her. 
It  does  not  seem  difficult  to  be  fond  of  her  when  he  is 
near  her ;  it  is  when  he  is  absent  that  he  feels  a  reluctance 
to  bind  himself  to  a  future  of  which  he  feels  uncertain. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  little  one'"  he  asks, 
gently  possessing  himself  of  one  of  her  hands. 


388  DOLORES. 

"I  scarcely  know"  (with  a  sigh  ;  looking  up,  but  not 
answering  the  smile  in  his  face).  "  Perhaps  I  was  think- 
ing it  would  be  very  dull  and  ugly  and  lonely  at  home, 
after  the  life  here." 

"  Home  !"  he  echoes  "  Where  is  home?  You  have 
no  home  but  this  now"  (very  kindly). 

"Yes,  it  is  my  home  now,"  she  answers,  looking  at 
him  steadily  ;  "  but  in  a  few  weeks  more  it  will  not  be." 

"No?"  (with  an  incredulous  smile).  "Where  will 
the  little  bird  be  flown?" 

"  Back  to  its  own  nest,  I  suppose"  (with  a  faint  smile). 

"Do  not  talk  like  this  any  more,  child,"  says  Guy, 
kindly.  "I  do  not  suppose  you  mean  it  seriously,  but 
still  it  pains  me  to  hear  you  say  such  things." 

"No,"  she  answers,  in  a  quiet  voice,  although  her 
heart  beats  thick  and  fast,  and  her  face  is  ashy  pale — 
"  no,  you  do  not  think  I  mean  it  seriously — you  do  not 
suppose  I  would  give  up  living  all  my  life  in  a  splendid 
house  like  yours,  with  everything — everything  almost — 
one  could  wish  for,  to  go  back  to  a  dull  poor  cottage 
like  the  home  I  came  from ;  but  yet  that  is  what  I  mean 
to  do,  what  I  came  out  to-night  to  tell  you." 

The  incredulous  look  has  died  out  of  Guy's  face  ab 
she  speaks.  He  sees  she  is  in  solemn  earnest.  And  to 
make  such  a  resolve  as  this,  he  feels  she  must  have  been 
intensely  miserable.  His  heart  condemns  him.  He  feels 
ready  to  make  any  sacrifice  to  atone  for  his  neglect  of 
her,  even  the  very  one  he  had  been  most  opposed  to. 

"My  darling,"  he  says,  very  earnestly,  "if  I  have 
made  you  unhappy,  if  you  think  I  have  been  wanting  in 
consideration  towards  you,  I  entreat  you  to  forgive  me. 
But  do  not  think  that  I  will  ever  let  you  leave  this  place 
and  go  back  to  Rouen.  Come,  dearest,  say  you  forgive 
me.  I  will  give  up  my  trip  to  Norway,  or  rather  we  will 


DOLORES  RESOLVES.  389 

be  married  at  the  time  it  was  proposed,  and  you  shall  go 
with  me." 

"  Were  you  going  to  Norway  ?" 

"Well"  (a  little  confused),  "I  had  some  thoughts  of 
it.  You  know  there  is  not  very  much  for  a  man  to  do  in 
the  country  just  now." 

Dolores  feels  a  dull,  cold  pain  at  her  heart.  So  he 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  spending  the  summer  with 
her,  and  must  go  to  Norway  to  get  out  of  sight  and  re- 
membrance of  her.  And  now,  for  pity's  sake  again,  the 
pity  that  she  hates  and  rages  against,  he  is  offering  once 
more  to  make  a  sacrifice  for  her — to  marry  her  at  once, 
because  he  thinks  she  cannot  live  without  him.  A  bitter 
resentment  grows  up  in  her  breast.  Her  love  is  half 
turned  to  hate.  She  tries  to  speak  indifferently,  but  her 
voice  is  bitter  as  she  says, — 

"Well,  you  shall  go  to  Norway,  and  be  quite  happy 
there.  I  shall  wish  you  ban  voyage,  and  you  will  make 
the  arrangements  for  our  departure ;  as  you  know  Mar- 
celline  and  I  are  not  much  used  to  travel." 

"Dolores,"  cries  Guy,  angrily,  "do  you  wish  to  put 
me  out  of  all  patience  ?  If  this  is  a  jest;  it  is  a  very  bad 
one." 

"A  jest"  (bitterly) — "a  jest !  ah,  yes,  it  is  droll,  is  it 
not? — a  jest  to  make  one  laugh."  And  she  gives  a  short, 
hard  laugh. 

Guy  is  pained  and  bewildered.  What  is  he  to  say  to 
her?  Shall  he  try  anger  or  entreaty?  Neither  seems  of 
much  avail,  and  he  reflects  rather  wearily  that  it  is  a  bad 
lookout  for  the  future.  Presently  he  says  in  an  authorita- 
tive tone, — 

"You  may  be  sure  of  one  thing,  and  that  is,  that  I 
shall  not  permit  you  to  carry  out  what  at  present  seems  to 
be  a  very  strong,  but  a  very  foolish,  idea." 

33* 


39° 


DOLORES. 


"  How  can  you  prevent  it  ?' '  (defiantly).  "  If  I  choose 
to  go,  who  can  hinder  me?" 

"Common  sense,  I  should  hope — "  (drily). 

"Common  sense"  (passionately) — "yes,  it  is  just  that 
which  makes  me  go;  it  is  that  which  says  to  me,  Why 
force  yourself  on  a  man  who  does  not  want  you  ?  I  know 
what  I  give  up — your  fine  chateau,  your  park,  your  money, 
your  great  friends,  all  sorts  of  gay  pleasure  ;  but  if  I  stay 
and  take  them,  I  give  up  my  pride,  my  respect  of  myself, 
and  I  should  break  my  heart  with  saying  every  day,  He 
did  not  want  me,  he  took  me  out  of  pity,  he  would  be  glad 
if  I  were  dead.  And  some  night — some  night  like  this" 
(looking  wildly  about  her),  "I  should  come  down  here, 
and  throw  myself  in,  and  then  you  would  be  done  with 
me  forever." 

Guy  looks  at  her  in  alarm — he  sees  she  is  over-excited, 
and  his  one  idea  is  to  soothe  her. 

"  Do  not  agitate  yourself  so,  child,"  he  says,  tenderly. 
"  We  will  talk  no  more  about  it  to-night ;  but,  at  all 
events,  promise  me  to  say  nothing  to  any  one  about  this 
for  the  present.  In  a  day  or  two  we  will  talk  the  matter 
over  calmly,  and  if  we  are  not  to  be  together  much  more, 
let  us  make  the  most  of  the  time  we  have,  and  try  to  be 
happy." 

Then  he  goes  back  to  his  oars,  and  rows  her  about  the 
lake  for  a  long  time;  and  as  the  water  grows  ever 
brighter  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  song  of  the  nightin- 
gales sweeter,  a  sense  of  rest  steals  over  them  ;  and  when 
at  last,  summoned  in  by  Lady  Wentworth's  anxiety,  they 
leave  the  boat,  and  Dolores,  leaning  on  Guy's  arm, 
slowly  ascends  the  lawn  towards  the  house,  all  angry  and 
troubled  feelings  are  stilled  in  their  breasts,  and  they  are 
conscious  of  nothing  but  the  supreme  power  and  beauty 
of  nature. 


DOLORES  RESOLVES. 


39* 


Guy  sits  up  very  late,  smoking,  and  trying  to  think 
what  is  best  to  be  done.  He  does  not  yet  believe  that 
Dolores  really  means  to  give  him  up,  or,  if  she  is  in 
earnest  about  it  now,  that  when  the  time  comes  she  will 
have  courage  to  go  back  to  the  old  life.  Time,  he  feels 
certain,  will  heal  her  fancied  wounds ;  and  what  an  ab- 
surd thing  it  would  be  to  have  an  esclandre  and  a  rupture 
of  the  engagement — when,  in  a  few  months,  it  is  sure  to 
be  renewed ;  for  he  thinks  he  knows  Dolores  too  well  to 
believe  that  she  could  ever  endure  a  repetition  of  her 
former  existence. 

Poor  little  child  !  he  feels  most  unfeignedly  sorry  for 
her — no  thought  of  anger  crosses  his  mind.  Well,  there 
is  only  one  thing  for  it — to  go  to  Norway,  as  he  has  ar- 
ranged, and,  before  going,  to  extract  from  her  a  promise 
to  stay  with  his  mother,  and  to  let  everything,  to  all  out- 
ward appearance,  remain  between  them  as  before.  He 
does  not  realize  that  the  surest  way  to  win  the  girl  back 
to  him  would  be  his  constant  presence ;  on  the  contrary, 
he  believes,  in  her  present  frame  of  mind,  it  only  serves 
to  irritate  her;  and,  thinking  this,  he  hastens  his  de- 
parture. 

Before  going,  he  asks  Dolores,  very  gravely  and  seri- 
ously, to  remain  with  his  mother  during  his  absence,  as  a 
personal  favor  to  himself,  and  not  to  let  her  suspect  any 
alteration  of  their  plans  or  feelings  towards  each  other. 
Then  he  says,  very  kindly,  taking  both  her  hands  in  his, — 

"  If,  when  I  return,  and  we  have  been  together  a  little 
while,  you  feel  sure  that  I  cannot  make  you  happy,  you 
shall  do  what  you  think  best ;  but,  in  any  case,  we  must 
always  be  friends,  and  you  must  look  upon  this  as  your 
home  whenever  you  choose  to  make  it  so." 

And  Dolores  having  so  far  swallowed  her  pride  as  to 
consent  to  this  arrangement,  he  bids  her  good-by  ten- 


392 


DOLORES. 


derly,  and  goes  off  perfectly  satisfied  that  everything  will 
happen  as  he  has  planned.  Short-sighted  mortal !  but 
how  in  the  world  is  a  man  to  understand  the  wheels 
within  wheels  that  work  a  woman's  mind  ? 

After  his  departure  Dolores  feels  relieved.  She  is 
schooling  herself  to  forget  him,  which  is  no  easy  task, 
when  every  one,  unconscious  of  what  has  passed  between 
them,  thinks  to  please  her  best  by  speaking  of  him.  No 
one  but  our  shrewd  Marcelline  suspects  anything,  and 
even  she  only  says  to  herself, — 

"  The  child  has  a  fit  of  pique.  It  makes  her  feel  strong 
just  now,  but  it  will  melt,  melt,  melt  with  time.  Only, 
if  I  had  been  Sir  Guy,  and  had  cared  for  the  little  one, 
I  should  have  stayed,  instead  of  going  off  in  my  fine  boat. 
Oh,  these  men — how  stupid  they  are !  The  good  Lord 
have  pity  on  them  !" 

But  although  Marcelline  has  a  somewhat  poor  opinion 
of  the  sex,  she  takes  a  certain  amount  of  pleasure  in  their 
society,  and  gives  herself  so  much  pains  to  be  agreeable 
to  them  as  to  become  an  object  of  disfavor  in  the  eyes  of 
some  of  the  female  portion  of  the  establishment  at  Went- 
worth.  There  are  times  when  she  thinks  that,  as  her 
young  lady  intends  settling  here,  there  may  be  advantages 
in  also  making  a  permanent  home,  and  contracting  ties 
which  will  give  her  a  still  stronger  hold  in  the  country. 
For,  whatever  may  be  her  affection  for  France,  her  pros- 
pects there  are  anything  but  brilliant,  and  no  one  is  more 
alive  to  worldly  ease  and  comfort  than  Marcelline. 

Her  attentions  are  divided  between  Mr.  Hart,  the  head 
gardener,  and  Walkinshaw,  the  butler,  who  has  lived  in 
the  family  some  thirty  years.  Now,  as  the  housekeeper 
has  for  many  years  cherished  the  hope  of  becoming, 
joii.tly  with  Mr.  Walkinshaw,  proprietor  of  the  "  Went- 
worth  Arms,"  and  the  lady's-maid  has  looked  with  long- 


DOLORES  RESOLVES. 


393 


ing  eyes  at  the  snug  cottage  tenanted  by  Mr.  Hart,  it  will 
be  easily  imagined  that  our  worthy  friend  Marcelline  finds 
small  favor  in  their  eyes,  but  is  rather  looked  upon  in  the 
light  of  a  foreign  interloper. 

It  happens  one  afternoon  that  Mr.  Walkinshaw  and 
Mrs.  Parker  are  tete-a-tete  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  Mrs. 
Simpson,  the  lady's-maid,  having  gone  into  the  neighbor- 
ing town,  and  Marcelline  being  out  in  the  grounds.  A 
magnificent  tabby  cat  dozes  on  the  hearth,  with  one  eye 
open  to  play  propriety.  A  brisk  fire  burns  in  the  grate — 
it  is  a  chilly  day  for  June ;  a  large  plate  of  muffins  stands 
on  the  steel  bar  of  the  fender,  and  the  whole  room  is  per- 
vaded by  a  fragrant  smell  of  coffee.  Everything  is  ready 
for  the  evening  meal. 

"Madame  Marslin's  a  long  time  coming,"  says  Mrs. 
Parker  at  last,  with  some  irritation. 

"She  is  engaged  with  her  young  lady,  I  presume," 
returns  Walkinshaw,  who  is  a  traveled  man,  and  prides 
himself  upon  the  correctness  with  which  he  speaks  the 
English  language. 

"  I  wonder  if  she's  going  to  stay  here  always,"  resumes 
the  housekeeper. 

"  I  presume  so ;  and  I,  for  one,  should  be  sorry  to  lose 
her — very  sorry,"  remarked  Walkinshaw;  "she  seems 
quite  to  have  enlivened  up  the  old  place." 

"You  used  not  to  find  it  dull  before  she  came,  Mr. 
Walkinshaw,"  says  Parker,  reproachfully. 

"Nor  should  I  ever  while  you  were  in  it,  ma'am,"  he 
answers,  gallantly.  "  I  have  always  been  accustomed  to 
consider  our  little  circle  most  select  and  delightful ;  but 
there's  a  pekancy  and  vivacity  about  Frenchwomen  that's 
very  taking  with  my  sex.  You  know,  Mrs.  Parker,  it  isn't 
always  those  as  amuse  us  men  the  most  that  we  respects 
the  most." 
R* 


394 


DOLORES. 


"  I'm  afraid  you're  sad  creatures,"  says  the  housekeeper, 
mollified,  nevertheless. 

"  Men  will  be  men,"  remarks  Walkinshaw,  with  a  smile 
that  seems  to  imply,  without  regretting,  a  certain  amount 
of  moral  laxity  in  himself  and  the  sex  in  general.  "But 
Madame  Marcelline  is  a  fine  presence  of  a  woman,"  he 
goes  on,  indiscreetly. 

"  For  those,  perhaps,  that  like  quantity,  and  aren't  par- 
ticular about  figure,"  sniffs  Mrs.  Parker,  contemptuously, 
who  is  small  and  slim  herself. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  say  she  has  the  elegance  nor  the  car- 
riage of  some  people  that  shall  be  nameless,"  rejoins  Wal- 
kinshaw; "  for  none  knows  better  than  you,  Mrs.  Parker, 
that  the  rules  of  good  society  forbid  present  company  to 
be  mentioned ;  but  still  Madame  Marcelline  is  a  fine  pres- 
ence of  a  woman — a  very  fine  presence  of  a  woman." 

"  How  she  can  wear  those  nightcaps  about  the  house, 
is  more  than  I  can  tell.  Why,  Scuttles,  our  under-house- 
maid,  would  scorn  to  be  seen  cleaning  the  grates  in  such 
a  thing." 

"Perhaps  you  are  not  aware,  ma'am,"  interrupts  the 
butler,  grandiosely,  "that  in  foreign  parts  those  white 
caps  are  not  a  badge  of  servitood.  I,  as  you  know,  have 
been  abroad  a  good  deal,  and  can  assure  you  from  expe- 
rience— from  personal  experience — that  the  wives  of  the 
farmers  and  tradesmen,  and  women  generally  of  the 
middle  class,  all  wear  those  kind  of  caps." 

"And  as  for  those  long  gold  ear-rings,  I  don't  call 
them  respectable,"  pursues  Mrs.  Parker,  with  acrimony. 
"I  wonder  my  lady  hasn't  thought  fit  to  make  the 
remark  to  her." 

"There  again  I  think  I  can  set  your  mind  at  rest," 
replies  Walkinshaw,  blandly.  "All  you  ladies,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Parker,  have  your  little  vanities,  and  every  French- 


DOLORES  RESOLVES.  395 

woman  must  have  her  gold  ear-rings — in  fact,  I  believe 
they  often  go  through  families  as  hair-looms." 

Repulsed  in  two  successive  places,  Mrs.  Parker's  fem- 
inine instinct  leads  her  to  seek  a  third  breach  for  escalade. 

"I'm  sorry  to  make  the  remark,"  she  says,  primly, 
"  'specially  before  a  gentleman,  but  I  do  not  consider 
Madame  Marslin  is  as  particular  in  her  conversation  as  J 
think  becoming  in  a  female." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Parker,"  replies  the  butler,  with  a 
slight  smile,  "I  cannot  altogether  be  surprised  if  Madame 
Marcelline  occasionally  offends  the  delicacy  of  your  sen- 
sitive mind — there  is  a  laissy  ally  about  Frenchwomen,  I 
admit.  For  instance,  I  might  make  a  joke  without  hesita- 
tion to  Madame  Marcelline,  that  I  should  blush  to  think 
of  even  in  your  presence." 

"  I  should  hope  you  would  never  take  such  a  liberty 
with  me,"  exclaims  the  housekeeper,  bridling.  "That's 
just  what  I  say — that  foreign  creature  comes  here  cor- 
rupting everybody;  and  it  wouldn't  be  her  if  she  didn't 
begin  with  the  men  first." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Parker,  you  quite  mistake  me,"  cries 
Walkinshaw,  regretting  his  confidence,  now  it  is  too  late. 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Walkinshaw,  I  don't  mistake  at  all,"  she 
retorts,  irefully.  "You  men  are  as  weak  as  water — any 
woman  can  lead  you  by  the  nose  if  she  only  flatters  you 
up  enough — it  can't  be  laid  on  too  thick  but  what  you 
can  take  it  all  in  at  once.  Just  because  this  person 
palavers  you  over  and  Mossoo's  you  half  a  dozen  times 
in  a  sentence,  you  think  more  of  her  than  of  any  one 
whose  whole  life's  been  open  to  you  for  seventeen  years." 

"Mrs.  Parker,"  says  the  butler,  severely,  becoming 
very  red,  "  there's  a  limit  to  everything." 

But  here  Marcelline  comes  in  with  a  beaming  face  and 
brisk  gait. 


396  DOLORES. 

"Ah !  millc pardons  !  I'av  made  you  vait,  fa  me  desole. 
Ah,  madame,  'ow  your  cafe  smell  good !"  she  commences, 
pleasantly,  with  her  natural  French  instinct  of  politeness. 

Mr.  Walkinshaw  has  risen  ceremoniously,  and  is  placing 
her  a  chair. 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  ne  vous  derangez  pas,  je  vous  en  prie !" 
cries  Marcelline. 

"  Creature  /"  frames  Mrs.  Parker's  lips;  but  a  stern 
glance  from  the  butler  quells  her.  (The  prospect  of 
being  future  mistress  of  the  "Wentworth  Arms"  is  not 
to  be  lightly  thrown  away.) 

"I  am  so  ungry,"  says  the  Frenchwoman.  "We  'av 
walk  all  troo  de  Park,  Monsieur  'Art  an'  me." 

"Permetty  moy  d'offrer  de  muffins,"  interposes  Wal- 
kinshaw, affably. 

"Sank  you,  sank  you,  monsieur.  Ah,  madame,  if  I 
but  spoke  de  English  like  Monsieur  peake  de  Francais." 

But  Mrs.  Parker's  face  is  bent  over  the  cups. 

"You  have  only  been  in  England  two  months,  you 
know,  madarm,"  answers  the  butler,  courteously.  "On 
and  off  I  should  say  I  have  been  twelve  in  Paris." 

"Ah  !  de  dear  beautiful  Paris !"  cries  Marcelline,  en- 
thusiastically. "  But  indeed,  monsieur,  dis  England  is — • 
is  milk  fois  much  better  dan  dey  make  me  tink.  For 
beaucoup  tings  I  like  ver  much  to  be  in  England." 

"Our  country  has  its  advantages,"  says  Walkinshaw, 
patronizingly. 

"And  for  de  men,  one  told  me  sey  vas  toujours — vot 
you  call  ivre  ? — ah !  teepsy,  Jest  (a,  an'  rude  comme  les 
ours  ;  I  find  dem  all  politesse. ' ' 

"Some  people  would  make  anybody  polite,"  returns 
Walkinshaw,  with  a  complimentary  bow  to  Marcelline. 

But  this  is  too  much  for  poor  Parker,  who,  rising  from 
her  seat,  flounces  out  of  the  room,  muttering  something 


DOLORES  RESOLVES.  397 

that  sounds  gratingly  in  the  butler's  particular  ears  like 
"Two's  company,  three's  trumpery,"  but  is  quite  unin- 
telligible to  Marcelline. 

"Vat  as  she,  Madame?"  asks  the  latter. 

"I  think  she  said  something  about  the  toothache," 
answers  Walkinshaw,  confused. 

"  Poor  sing  !   Quel  dommage,  an'  ze  caf£  so  good." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  very  much ;  she  will  return  soon, 
no  doubt.     Some  more  muffins,  madame?" 

When  Mr.  Walkinshaw  smokes  his  pipe  in  the  evening, 
he  makes  sundry  reflections,  which  end  as  follows : 

"  Yes,  I've  said  it  before,  and  I  say  it  again,  matrimony 
is  a  decided  mistake.  I  don't  deny  that  state  has  its  ad- 
vantages, but  I'm  convinced  the  drawbacks  more  than 
counterbalance  them.  Mrs.  Parker's  a  nice  woman,  a 
well-preserved  woman,  and  a  lady -like  woman,  and  there 
have  been  moments,  I  don't  deny,  when  I've  wished  that 
Mrs.  Parker  and  I  were  one;  but  there  have  also  been 
moments  when  I've  thanked  Providence  we  weren't,  and 
this  present  is  one  of  them.  You  see,"  Walkinshaw  goes 
on,  apparently  apostrophizing  a  red-hot  coal  on  which 
his  eye  is  fixed — "  you  see,  if  Mrs.  Parker  was  my  wife, 
there  would  be  the  deuce  to  pay  with  her  about  all  the 
other  ladies  in  the  house.  She's  of  a  jealous  tempera- 
ment. It  doesn't  matter  so  much  now,  because  I  haven't 
set  the  seal  upon  my  affections  by  offering  her  my  hand 
and  heart ;  so,  however  much  she  may  be  in  a  rage,  thank 
the  Lord  she  must  keep  it  to  herself;  but  that  seal  once 
set,  then,  John  Walkinshaw,  you'd  never  dare  have  an 
eye  for  a  fine  woman  again,  I  promise  you.  I've  known 
Mrs.  Parker  this  seventeen  years,  and  all  that  time  I've 
thought  of  her,  for  I'm  not  one  to  marry  in  haste  and 
repent  at  leisure,  and  experience  has  taught  me  that  she's 
got  a  rare  number  of  good  qualities,  but  she's  also  got,  in 

34 


DOLORES. 


common  with  her  sex,  a  temper  and  a  tongue.  I  don't 
mind  the  temper — that's  nothing ;  everybody's  got  that, 
more  or  less;  but  the  tongue — good  Lord  deliver  me 
from  that,  say  1 1" 


CHAPTER  XL. 

A  NEW  LOVER. 

LORD  HERONMERE  is  very  much  in  love  indeed.  He 
sighs  a  good  deal,  and  is  exceedingly  doleful,  gets  chaffed 
immoderately  by  his  friends  (mostly  contemporary  en- 
signs), takes  little  pleasure  in  his  wonted  amusements,  and 
begins  to  think  life  a  mistake.  It  is  with  a  feeling  of 
supreme  delight  that  he  receives,  one  morning  at  the 
Tower,  the  intelligence  that  Guy  has  started  for  Norway. 
His  first  thought  is,  "  What  a  confounded  shame  !" — his 
second,  "  By  Jove  !  I'll  have  a  try  for  her  now — all's  fair 
in  love  and  war."  Exhilarated  by  this  thought,  he  re- 
covers his  accustomed  cheerfulness,  which  his  friends  do 
not  fail  to  remark. 

"Well,  Infant,"  says  one  (that  being  his  sobriquet  in 
the  regiment),  "what  has  brought  the  rose  to  your  damask 
cheek  and  the  smile  to  your  coral  lips  again?  I  should 
think  some  old  woman  had  died  and  left  you  a  fortune,  if 
you  weren't  so  infernally  rich  already.  Has  she  accepted, 
or  have  you  proposed  by  mamma's  order,  and  has  she 
refused  ? — either  would  account  for  your  extreme  chirpi- 
ness." 

"Never  mind  the  reason,  Duffer,  my  boy,"  replies  the 
young  Viscount ;  "  suffice  it  to  say  the  rose  has  come  back 


A   NEW  LOVER. 


399 


to  my  damask  cheek,  etc.,  etc.,  as  you  justly  observe,  and 
we'll  have  a  dinner  on  the  strength  of  it — you,  and  Bob, 
and  Billy,  and  I.  Let's  go  and  look  them  up." 

All  that  day  the  young  fellow  is  making  plans  for  the 
conquest  of  Dolores ;  but  the  more  he  thinks  about  the 
matter,  the  less  promising  it  looks. 

"  She  is  confoundedly  fond  of  him  !"  he  says,  dismally, 
to  himself.  "  I  don't  suppose  anything  would  put  her 
out  of  conceit  of  him  !  If  anything  would,  his  going  off 
and  leaving  her  like  this  ought  to.  But  women  are  such 
unaccountable  creatures  !"  (with  an  air  of  experience  that 
would  have  made  any  one  die  of  laughing  if  he  had  had  an 
audience).  "At  all  events,  I  shall  write  to  Aunt  Margaret 
and  ask  if  I  may  go  down  for  a  few  days — or,  by  Jove  !" 
(as  a  sudden  thought  strikes  him)  "she  might  suspect 
something,  and  put  me  off.  I'll  go  down  to  Bertram's, 
if  I  can  get  leave — he  is  always  asking  me ;  and  it's  only 
five  miles  from  Wentworth.  I  dare  say  he'll  cut  up  rather 
rough  if  I  want  to  leave  him  much ;  but  I'll  square  him  by 
confiding  in  him." 

Three  days  later  he  and  George  Bertram  are  walking 
arm-in-arm  across  the  common  which  lies  outside  the  Park 
gates  of  Bertram  Hall. 

"By  Jove!  we've  got  summer  at  last!"  says  young 
Bertram.  "Let's  sit  down  a  minute.  I'm  not  much  of 
a  walker  since  Paragon  rolled  on  my  leg  in  the  winter." 

So  they  seat  themselves  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  fir-tree. 

"It's  an  awfully  pretty  place,"  says  Lord  Heronmere, 
taking  a  leisurely  survey  of  the  scene — "  a  deal  of  incident, 
too,  for  the  country." 

It  is  a  very  picturesque  scene  that  stretches  out  before 
them,  and  both  contemplate  it  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 
A  warm  light  lies  upon  the  common,  and  reddens  the 
dark  stems  of  the  fir-trees,  spread  about  in  clumps,  and 


400 


DOLORES. 


the  long  thick  line  of  alternate  oaks  and  beeches  which 
bounds  yonder  park.  A  big  brown  gipsy  woman,  with 
the  remains  of  a  black  velvet  bonnet  and  feather  pyramidi- 
cally  surmounting  her  swart  face  and  coal-black  hair,  is 
driving  a  couple  of  side-saddled  donkeys  to  a  shallow 
pool ;  sundry  dirty  imps  lie  in  supreme  abandon  on  the 
short  dry  turf  near  their  encampment ;  a  cart  laden  with 
timber  toils  up  the  hill,  and  a  flock  of  sheep  browse  on 
the  common,  tended  by  a  herd — not  after  Watteau. 

"Oh,  the  place  is  pretty  enough,"  rejoins  Bertram, 
discontentedly,  "  if  there  was  any  one  to  see  or  anything 
to  do.  My  uncle  will  keep  me  tied  by  the  leg  down  here, 
and  what  he  wants  me  for  except  to  tyrannize  over,  heaven 
only  knows  !  And  I  daren't  offend  him,  because  you  know 
he  isn't  bound  to  leave  me  the  money,  though  I  must  have 
the  place.  And  I'm  infernally  hard  up  just  now,  and 
want  to  keep  him  in  a  good  temper.  What  a  happy  fellow 
you  are  to  be  your  own  father." 

"  It  must  be  a  bore  having  to  stop  in  one  place,"  re- 
turns his  friend  ;  "  and  I  expect  scenery  is  very  apt  to 
pall  upon  one  after  a  little  time.  Haven't  you  got  any 
pretty  girls  anywhere  about?" 

"  Deuce  a  one  except  the  girl  who  is  engaged  to  your 
cousin.  She's  pretty  enough  for  anything." 

Heronmere  reddens,  but  he  does  not  quite  feel  the  time 
for  a  confidence  has  arrived. 

"Let's  see,  what  else  is  there?"  he  continues,  rather 
hurriedly.  "  Happy  thought ! — write  a  book !" 

"  Quite  my  line.  A  thousand  thanks  for  the  suggestion," 
laughs  his  friend. 

"Easiest  thing  in  the  world,  I'm  told,  writing  a  book. 
When  you  once  begin,  it  goes  like  lightning — the  ideas 
crowd  into  your  brain  and — all  that  sort  of  thing.  This 
would  be  a  stunning  place  to  write  in,  or  paint  a  picture 


A   NEW  LOVER. 


401 


—for  instance,  a  composition  piece  in  various  approved 
styles.  Village  inn  in  the  foreground"  (pointing  to  an 
unpretentious  "Marquis  of  Granby"  on  the  hill  summit), 
"  with  boors  drinking,  after  Teniers.  Give  your  fancy 
free  rein,  and  imagine  this  highly  intelligent-looking  shep- 
herd to  our  right  a  Corydon  after  Watteau,  belaced  and 
beribboned,  piping  to  his  lady-love ;  then  bring  in  a  flock 
of  sheep,  after — who's  the  great  swell  that  does  sheep?" 

"  Cooper?" 

"  Yes,  Cooper  !  Then  donkeys  drinking,  Sir  Edwin  ; 
gipsy  encampment,  Faed ;  and  wind  up  with  a  gorgeous 
sky,  and  a  patch  of  magenta  heather,  after  Linnell  or 
Cole.  A  splendid  idea,  by  Jove  ! — would  make  your  for- 
tune, and  pay  all  your  debts,  if  you  could  only  carry  it 
out,  because  there  must  be  something  to  please  all  tastes 
in  a  picture  like  that.  I  say,  Bertram"  (with  a  sudden 
and  startling  change  of  subject,  and  blushing  vividly  the 
while),  "  should  you  consider  it  dishonorable  to  be  in 
love  with  a  girl  who  was  engaged  to  another  man?" 

Bertram  puffs  away  at  his  cigar,  and  appears  to  be 
ruminating  deeply  over  the  matter  that  has  been  pro- 
pounded to  him. 

"Well,  no,"  he  answers,  presently,  removing  it  from 
his  mouth,  and  speaking  with  great  deliberation;  "I 
shouldn't  call  it  dishonorable  to  be  in  love  with  an 
engaged  girl,  because  falling  in  love  is  an  involuntary 
action,  and  you  can't  help  your  feelings;  but"  (looking 
at  his  friend  with  some  curiosity)  "  I  shouldn't  think  it 
right  to  try  and  cut  the  other  fellow  out,  if  it  was  a  bona 
fide  engagement,  more  particularly  if  the  man  was  your 
friend." 

"Or  your  relation,  for  instance?" 

"Why,  Kerry,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you're  in  love 
with  the  future  Lady  Wentworth  ?' ' 
2A  34* 


402  DOLORES. 

"Yes,  I  do"  (gloomily).  "You  said  just  now  you 
knew  that  one  couldn't  help  one's  feelings." 

"  Do  you  want  my  advice  on  the  subject?" 

"It  rather  depends  upon  what  it  is." 

"  Well,  keep  out  of  her  way." 

"Bertie,  old  boy,"  cries  his  friend,  "were  you  ever  in 
lovcl" 

"Scores  of  times,  my  dear  fellow"  (with  a  blase  air). 

"Ah,  but  did  you  ever  feel"  (vehemently)  "that  you 
would  give  up  everything  you  had  in  the  world  worth 
having  for  the  sake  of  a  woman  ?" 

"  Can't  say  I  ever  did.  Perhaps,  though,  that  was  be- 
cause I  never  had  much  to  give  up." 

"  Don't  laugh,  old  fellow.  I'm  in  sober,  solemn 
earnest.  I  worship  that  girl,  and,  by  heaven  !  I  do  be- 
lieve that  if  she  marries  Guy  I  shall  blow  my  brains  out." 
And  the  tears  actually  stand  in  the  boy's  blue  eyes. 

"This  is  rather  a  bad  business,"  says  his  friend, 
gravely.  "But,  Kerry,  my  boy,  it  isn't  the  action  of  a 
gentleman,  you  know,  to  try  and  get  her  away  from 
him." 

"Perhaps  not"  (ruefully),  "  only,  the  fact  is,  Bertram, 
he  isn't  behaving  what  I  call  well  to  her,  and,  astound- 
ing as  it  seems,  /  don't  believe  he  is  in  love  with  her.  If 
he  was,  you  know,  it  would  never  have  crossed  my  brain; 
but  look  here,  old  fellow,  I  adore  her  !  She  couldn't  lose 
either  in  money  or  position  by  marrying  me,  and  if  he 
doesn't  really  care  very  much  for  her,  where's  the  harm  ?" 

"But,  Herry,  if  he  didn't  care  for  her,  why  did  he 
ask  her  to  marry  him  ?' ' 

Heronmere  shakes  his  head. 

"  I  don't  knowj  but,  all  the  same,  I  don't  believe  he 
does." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  get  her  to  like  you?" 


A   NEW  LOVER. 


4«>3 


"Ah!"  (with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  rueful  countenance), 
"  that's  the  worst  of  it!  She's  so  awfully  fond  of  him  ! 
I  don't  know  why — though,  to  be  sure,  I  used  to  think 
he  was  a  good  fellow  once.  Nothing  separates  friends 
like  a  woman  !" 

Bertram  laughs. 

"I'm  afraid,  Kerry,  you  have  taken  the  complaint  very 
badly ;  and  if  she  is  as  fond  of  Wentworth — who,  by  the 
way,  is  as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  stepped — as  you  say,  I 
don't  think  you've  got  a  chance,  so  take  my  advice  and 
give  it  up.  He's  sure  to  hear  afterwards  that  you've  been 
trying  it  on,  and  it  isn't  a  sort  of  thing  a  man  comes  very 
well  out  of,  particularly  if  he  doesn't  get  the  woman  after 
all.  And  I  dare  say  you  wouldn't  be  so  keen  about  her 
if  there  wasn't  an  obstacle  !" 

"Shouldn'tl?"  (emphatically).    "  Do  you  know  her  ?" 

"  I  have  just  been  introduced  to  her — that's  all." 

"Well,  the  only  thing  that  surprises  me  is  that  every 
man  who  sees  her  doesn't  fall  madly  in  love  with  her  at 
once,  as  I  did." 

"  It's  a  mercy  men's  tastes  are  different,"  laughs  his 
friend,  "  or  what  a  run  there  would  be  on  some  women  ! 
Hang  it,  I  hear  the  first  dinner-bell  in  the  distance  !  And 
if  we  are  late,  I  sha'n't  get  any  money  out  of  the  old 
man  for  another  month." 

Many  and  large  are  the  cigars  that  Lord  Heronmere 
smokes  that  evening,  when  all  the  household,  except  his 
friend,  have  retired  to  rest ;  and  long-winded  is  the  dis- 
course and  subtle  the  arguments  he  pours  into  that  long- 
suffering  friend's  ear.  Bertram  is  patient — the  cigars  are 
Kerry's,  and  very  good ;  he  hates  going  to  bed,  there- 
fore he  makes  a  most  excellent  listener ;  and  as  he  sees 
that  the  boy  is  not  to  be  turned  from  his  purpose,  he 
ceases  to  offer  opposition.  To-morrow,  or  rather  to-day 


404  DOLORES. 

— for  it  is  long  past  midnight — they  are  to  ride  over  to 
Wentworth.  Bertram  is  to  be  re-introduced  to  the  love- 
liest creature  on  earth,  and  to  take  off  Aunt  Margaret. 
And  Heronmere — well,  he  is  very  brave  to-night,  and 
feels  capable  of  saying  and  doing  anything. 

But  when  they  have  arrived  at  the  Court,  and  been 
duly  welcomed  and  invited  to  lunch  by  Lady  Wentworth, 
the  poor  fellow  is  taken  with  quite  unaccustomed  shy- 
ness. He  has  plenty  of  opportunity  of  seeing  his  idol 
and  being  alone  with  her,  but,  whether  his  guilty  con- 
science makes  him  shy,  or  he  is  embarrassed  by  the  per- 
fect ease  of  her  manner  to  him,  he  is  utterly  unable  to 
make  anything  but  the  most  commonplace  remarks. 

"Have  you  been  riding  lately?"  he  asks  her,  as  they 
stroll  through  the  garden  together,  while  Bertram,  like  a 
true  friend,  is  pretending  to  take  an  enormous  interest  in 
flowers,  and  holding  a  long  discussion  with  Lady  Went- 
worth on  the  respective  merits  of  different  bordering 
plants. 

"  No"  (with  a  little  sigh),  "  not  since  Guy  went  away." 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  care  to  ride  with  anybody  else?" 
(gloomily). 

"I  don't  care  about  riding  with  a  groom"  (smiling). 
"And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  a  little  afraid,  unless  I 
have  some  one  quite  close  to  me." 

"Mayn't  I  come  over  and  ride  with  you?"  (eagerly). 
"  I'll  take  the  most  tremendous  care  of  you." 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much.  I  feel  nearly  as  safe  with 
you  as  I  do  with  Guy." 

"Not  quite?"  (disappointed).  "I'll  back  myself  to 
take  care  of  a  lady  out  riding  with  any  fellow  living." 

"  I  dare  say.  But  you  are  such  a  child,  you  know;  one 
can't  have  as  much  confidence  in  you  as  in  a  grown-up 
man."  And  Dolores  laughs  slyly.  She  takes  an  immense 


A   NEW  LOVER.  465 

pleasure  in  teasing  the  young  fellow,  with  whom  his  youth 
is  rather  a  sore  subject. 

"Really,  Miss  Power"  (huffily),  "considering  that  I 
am  at  least  four  years  older  than  you,  I  should  think  I 
might  be  considered  a  responsible  person.  I  came  of  age 
last  winter,  and  if  I  am  thought  old  enough"  (grandly, 
and  caressing  the  down  on  his  lip)  "  to  fight  for  my  coun- 
try, surely  I  may  be  trusted  to  perform  so  very  slight  a 
service  as  to  look  after  a  lady  on  horseback.  Why,  last 
winter,  Lady  Di  Carew  always  took  a  lead  from  me,  al- 
though there  were  many  much  older  fellows  present." 

Here  he  stops,  remembering  that  the  reason  why  that 
lovely  young  Amazon  preferred  his  lead  was  on  account 
of  his  very  straight  and  plucky  riding ;  but  Dolores  knows 
nothing  about  hunting,  and  cannot,  therefore,  embrace 
this  opportunity  of  tripping  him  up. 

"  May  I  ride  over  to-morrow,  on  the  chance  of  your 
feeling  inclined  to  ride?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  do  come ;  and  stop  all  day,  and  make  me 
laugh.  I  feel  the  want  of  laughing,  and  you  amuse  me  so 
much  !  We  won't  ride  in  the  morning,  because  it  will  be 
hot ;  but  you  shall  row  me  on  the  lake,  and  then,  after 
lunch,  you  shall  give  me  another  lesson  in  billiards,  and 
we  will  ride  about  five ;  and  then,  after  dinner,  you  can 
go  back  to  your  friend." 

"  Yes.  What  an  awfully  jolly  day  we  shall  have  !"  ex- 
claims the  young  fellow,  delighted, — "at  least"  (mod- 
estly) "I  shall." 

" But  suppose  it  rains?" 

"Oh,  it  won't;  and  if  it  does,  I  shall  come  all  the 
same ;  ard  we  can  play  billiards  and  battledore,  and  you'll 
sing  to  me  a  little — won't  you?" 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  promise  to  be  very  funny,  and  make 
me  laugh." 


406  DOLORES. 

"I  suppose  you  must  think  me  an  awful  fool,"  says  the 
boy,  dejectedly,  "  if  I'm  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  a  kind 
of  buffoon." 

"I  think  you  are  the  nicest  boy  I  ever  met,"  she  an- 
swers, with  a  little  patronizing  tap  on  the  arm. 

"  Do  you  ?"  (eagerly,  gulping  down  the  boy  for  the  sake 
of  its  preceding  adjective.) 

He  longs  to  seize  and  embrace  the  little  hand,  but  his 
shyness  will  not  let  him ;  and  yet,  in  his  dealings  with  the 
fair  sex,  he  has  not  by  any  means  enjoyed  the  reputation 
of  being  backward.  But  the  boldest  man  becomes  shy 
when  he  is  really  in  love  with  a  modest  woman.  The  very 
desire  of  taking  such  a  delightful  liberty  brings  the  hot 
blood  to  his  cheeks,  and  he  turns  away,  to  conceal  his 
confusion. 

"Aunt  Margaret,"  he  cries,  as  Lady  Wentworth  and 
Bertram  approach  them,  "don't  you  think  a  few  rides 
would  do  Miss  Power  good?  She  is  looking  rather  pale." 

"Yes"  (kindly) ;  "I  am  sure  of  it.  You  might  come 
over  and  take  her  out.  Come  to-morrow;  and  perhaps 
Mr.  Bertram  will  come  too." 

But  Bertram  pleads  an  engagement ;  he  does  not  find 
it  very  exciting  amusement  to  play  third  and  to  take  off 
Lady  Wentworth. 

"A  pretty  fellow  you  are,  to  come  and  stay  with 
one!"  he  says  to  his  friend,  as  they  ride  through  the 
Park  together,  on  their  homeward  way. 

"  My  dear  fellow"  (penitently),  "  I  know  it's  an  awful 
shame;  but  I'm  tremendously  grateful  to  you,"  answers 
Heronmere,  feeling  that,  if  he  only  knew  how  to  do  it 
delicately  enough,  he  would  like  to  pay  off  his  friend's 
debts, — "tremendously  grateful  to  you  for  letting  me  make 
a  convenience  of  you;  and — and  some  day,  I  hope,  I 
shall  be  able  to  do  the  same  for  you." 


A  NEW  LOVER.  407 

" I  hope  you  won't"  (cynically) ;  "I  hope  Providence 
will  keep  me  out  of  the  toils  of  women  for  the  next  ten 
years  at  least." 

"I  used  to  think  so,"  replies  Heronmere,  magnifi- 
cently; "in  fact,  I  was  always  telling  my  mother  so 
when  she  wanted  to  ram  some  duke's  daughter  down  my 
throat.  But,  do  you  know,  Bertie"  (with  an  air  of  con- 
viction), "I  have  been  thinking  lately  that  it  is  really  a 
good  thing  for  a  fellow  who  has  responsibilities,  like  a 
big  place  and  a  lot  of  land,  you  know,  to  settle  down 
early.  It  keeps  one  out  of  mischief.  And,  you  know, 
I'm  the  last  of  the  family;  and  if  I  were  to  go  under, 
the  title  would  become  extinct." 

Bertram  bursts  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"Well  done,  Infant!  I  see  you  have  taken  every 
contingency  into  consideration.  I  wonder,  with  such 
tremendous  responsibilities  on  your  shoulders,  you  aren't 
afraid  to  get  outside  a  horse,  or  trust  yourself  in  a  rail- 
way-carriage, let  alone  being  a  soldier,  and  running  the 
risk  of  being  shot,  if  we  have  a  war.  Why  the  deuce 
didn't  you  go  into  the  Life  Guards  or  the  Blues?  Your 
precious  life  would  have  been  a  deal  safer  there." 

"Now,  Bertie,  shut  up  your  chaff,  and  let's  discuss  the 
matter  rationally.  You  know"  (with  an  only  half-con- 
vinced air),  "knocking  about  isn't  near  so  jolly  as  one 
fancies." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  retorts  Bertram.  "  I  think 
you  and  I  have  had  some  jolly  times  together — a  great 
deal  more  than  you're  ever  likely  to  have  again,  if  you 
tie  yourself  down  at  one-and-twenty  to  a  girl  you'll  prob- 
ably get  sick  of  before  a  twelvemonth." 

"Never  !"  (with  great  energy). 

"  Fellows  of  your  age,"  proceeds  Bertram,  "were  never 
intended  to  settle  down  at  twenty-one,  and  go  to  bed  at 


408  DOLORES. 

ten  o'clock,  and  carve  for  the  children,  and  have  family 
prayers.  Look  at  those  jolly  old  patriarchs,  what  a  time 
they  took  to  sow  their  wild  oats." 

"Oh,  yes,  and  a  nice  husband  one  would  make  for  a 
pretty  girl  when  one  was  a  toothless,  bearded,  used-up  old 
mummy,"  retorts  Heronmere. 

"That's  just  the  time — enjoy  your  youth,  and  marry 
when  you  want  a  nurse ;  you  can  always  get  a  pretty 
young  woman  to  have  you,  if  you've  lots  of  tin — at  least, 
that's  what  Uncle  Fred  always  says  when  he  wants  to  take 
a  rise  out  of  poor  aunt." 

"Your  uncle's  an  old  brute,  and  Mrs.  Bertram  is  an 
angel,"  says  Heronmere,  warmly.  "I  should  have  liked 
to  throw  a  decanter  at  his  head  two  or  three  times  last 
night  when  he  was  bullying  her  so  shamefully." 

"  Oh,  I  think  she  likes  it — at  least,  she's  so  used  to  it 
I'm  sure  she'd  miss  it  dreadfully  if  he  took  it  into  his  head 
to  leave  it  off  for  a  day  or  two.  But  there's  no  fear  of 
that,  as  long  as  he  keeps  on  eating  and  drinking,  and  lay- 
ing in  gout  for  himself  as  he  does." 

"  What  a  dreadful  thing  to  get  old  !  Poor  old  beggars  ! 
I  suppose  dinner  is  the  only  thing  they've  got  to  look 
forward  to." 

"I  suppose  so.  But  you  haven't  told  me  yet  how  you 
got  on  to-day.  Have  you  paved  the  way  at  all?" 

"Well,  you  know"  (doubtfully),  "it  isn't  exactly  a 
very  easy  thing  when  a  girl's  engaged  to  your  cousin — " 

"So  I  thought  last  night"  (drily),  "but  you  didn't 
seem  to  see  it  then. ' ' 

"To-morrow,  perhaps,"  says  Heronmere,  putting  his 
horse  into  a  gallop  on  the  smooth  turf.  "  I'll  race  you 
from  here  to  the  Marquis  of  Gran  by  for  a  fiver. ' ' 

"  Done  !"  And  off  the  two  good-looking  young  fellows 
fly  on  their  thoroughbreds,  at  a  speed  that  would  have 


HERONMERE'S   CONGE. 


409 


made  Uncle  Fred  swear  for  a  month,  if  he  could  only 
have  seen  them.  Within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  Gran- 
by,  they  are  neck  and  neck ;  Heronmere  pulls  his  horse 
slightly — he  doesn't  want  the  fiver,  and  Bertram  does. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

HERONMERE'S  CONGE. 

HAPPINESS  is  selfish,  and  while  everything  had  gone 
smoothly  with  Dolores,  she  had  thought  very  little  about 
Captain  Etherege  and  his  sister.  But  since  sad  hours 
have  taken  the  place  of  glad  ones,  they  have  been  a  great 
deal  in  her  thoughts,  and  she  feels  a  strong  desire  to  hear 
something  about  them.  So  one  day  she  writes  a  letter  to 
Mary  Etherege,  quite  a  short  letter,  and  scarcely  speaking 
of  herself,  but  asking  news  of  both  her  old  friends.  A 
few  days  after,  she  receives  an  answer.  It  is  very  kind ; 
in  it  there  is  no  allusion  to  the  past.  Mary  writes  pleas- 
antly about  herself,  and  her  plans  for  the  summer  and 
autumn.  In  a  postscript  she  writes, — 

"  Philip  has  gone  on  a  wild  exploring  expedition  with 
two  friends;  they  are  all  very  enthusiastic  about  it,  and 
expect  great  results.  Who  knows  but  he  may  become  a 
second  Sir  Samuel  Baker?" 

"I  suppose  he  has  forgotten  all  about  me,"  sighs  Do- 
lores. "  How  happy  men  are,  when  things  go  wrong  with 
them,  to  be  able  to  go  away  and  travel,  and  make  new  in- 
terests, instead  of  having  to  sit  at  home  and  think  always 
about  their  grief,  as  we  must." 
«  35 


4io  DOLORES. 

Lord  Heronmere's  arrival  in  the  country  has,  however, 
a  very  good  effect  on  her  spirits.  The  company  of  a 
good-looking,  lively  young  fellow  is  decidedly  a  pleasant 
change  from  that  of  a  quiet  elderly  lady,  however  kind 
and  amiable  she  may  be.  Dolores  has  really  never  been 
in  the  society  of  any  one  of  her  own  age,  and  the  fun 
and  vivacity  that  is  part  of  her  nature  has  lain  perdu  ;  but 
Heronmere's  gayety  and  good  humor  are  contagious,  and 
she  has  never  seemed  so  sprightly  or  full  of  fun  as  in  his 
company. 

Lady  Wentworth  is  delighted;  the  thought  of  her 
nephew,  whom  she  looks  upon  as  a  mere  child,  being  a 
rival  for  her  son,  never  enters  her  brain,  and  she  encour- 
ages his  visits  warmly  when  she  sees  how  much  brighter 
and  lighter-hearted  they  seem  to  make  Dolores.  Since 
his  aunt's  first  invitation,  Heronmere  has  availed  himself 
most  freely  of  every  opportunity  of  being  at  the  Court, 
and  in  spite  of  Bertram's  remonstrances,  and  the  secret 
qualms  of  his  own  conscience,  every  day  after  breakfast 
he  mounts  his  steed  and  gallops  off  to  Dolores.  They 
make  a  charming  pair,  as  no  one  who  sees  them  together 
can  fail  to  remark;  and  Guy,  lying  in  his  boat  on  the 
Norse  river,  enjoying  the  occasional  excitement  of  hauling 
in  a  big  salmon,  or  more  often  the  do  Ice  far  niente,  would 
probably  be  not  altogether  pleased  if  he  could  see  his 
cousin  and  bride-elect  upon  such  remarkably  free  and 
happy  terms. 

He  writes  occasional  letters  to  Dolores,  in  which  he 
makes  no  allusion  to  any  change  in  their  relations  to  each 
other ;  he  tells  her  what  fish  he  has  caught ;  describes  the 
life  he  is  leading;  writes  how  he  has  bought  her  a  whole 
set  of  Norwegian  silver  ornaments;  inquires  about  her 
health  and  pursuits ;  sends  messages  to  his  mother,  and  so 
on.  In  return  she  writes  him  short  letters,  carefully 


HLRONMERE*S   CONGE.  411 

answering  all  his  questions,  giving  particulars  of  the  health 
of  his  horses  and  dogs,  and  such  matters  as  may  interest 
him,  but  avoids  any  allusion  to  herself  and  her  own  inten- 
tions towards  him. 

After  three  or  four  days  spent  in  her  society,  Heron- 
mere's  infatuation  reaches  a  pitch  that  makes  concealment 
almost  impossible  ;  he  has  just  self-control  enough  to  con- 
ceal his  feelings  tolerably  in  his  aunt's  presence,  but  at 
other  times  he  throws  off  all  restraint,  and  the  state  of  his 
affections  is  patent  to  every  member  of  the  household,  and 
is  commented  pretty  freely  upon  in  the  servants'  hall. 

Just  at  this  time,  too,  Lady  Wentworth  is  seized  with 
a  severe  cold,  which  confines  her  to  the  house,  and  for 
the  greater  part  of  the  day  to  her  own  room.  Dolores, 
whose  disposition  is  very  affectionate,  is  anxious  to  sit 
with  her,  to  read  to  her,  or  to  do  anything  in  the  world 
that  can  add  to  her  ease  and  comfort ;  but  the  elder  lady 
will  not  hear  of  it,  and  the  girl  is  afraid  to  press  her  ser- 
vices, lest  they  should  be  unwelcome. 

So,  as  the  weather  is  glorious,  the  two  young  people 
spend  the  whole  day  out  of  doors,  reveling  in  the  sun- 
shine, making  the  garden  resound  with  their  laughter,  and 
playing  each  other  a  thousand  tricks,  like  young  madcaps 
as  they  are.  Every  now  and  then,  however,  Heronmere 
becomes  sad  and  serious :  he  is  dying  to  tell  his  passion 
to  the  object  of  it,  yet  he  dares  not,  except  by  glances  and 
sighs  and  pressures  of  the  hand.  The  girl  is  a  little  co- 
quette :  she  knows  he  is  in  love  with  her,  and  takes  a  mis- 
chievous pleasure  in  teasing  him.  When  they  go  in  the 
boat,  she  will  not  give  him  the  pleasure  of  holding  her 
hand  to  help  her  in,  but  jumps  nimbly  past  him,  with  a 
malicious  little  laugh  at  his  disappointed  face.  Some- 
times, when  they  go  out  riding,  she  will  not  let  him  mount 
her,  but  insists  on  being  put  up  by  the  groom.  There- 


4I2  DOLORES. 

upon,  mortified  and  furious,  the  young  fellow  looks  dag- 
gers at  her  as  they  ride  down  the  avenue ;  and  she  laughs 
a  little  laugh  of  triumph,  calls  him  a  silly  boy,  and  de- 
clares that  if  he  does  not  immediately  smile  and  be  pleasant 
she  will  turn  round  and  go  home,  and  sit  with  his  aunt  in 
her  bedroom  all  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

She  delights  in  this  little  tyranny — she  likes  to  feel  that 
he  is  in  her  power,  and  that  he  adores  her — further 
thought  or  intention  has  she  none.  A  little  pleasant  re- 
vengeful idea,  that  Guy  would  not  be  pleased  if  he  knew 
it,  adds  zest  to  her  enjoyment. 

But  Heronmere's  feelings  are  getting  too  much  for  him. 
Not  to  have  her  now  would  be  madness,  despair,  the  end 
of  all  things !  He  has  not  experienced  much  contradic- 
tion in  his  life,  and  the  blood  in  his  veins  is  young  and 
hot.  So  it  happens  that  one  summer  morning  he  speaks. 
The  sunshine  of  a  month  seems  to  be  crowded  into  this 
day ;  everything  looks  bright  and  beautiful,  the  softest  air 
breathes  through  the  trees,  preventing  the  heat  from  being 
oppressive,  and  the  youthful  pair  have  betaken  themselves 
to  the  lake,  where  they  row  close  to  the  bank,  under  the 
shade  of  the  big  trees.  Dolores  is  reclined  upon  a  heap 
of  cushions,  which  her  young  gallant  has  piled  luxuriously 
for  her ;  her  face,  crowned  with  rippling  hair,  looks  mar- 
velously  fair  upon  the  rose-colored  pillow ;  she  is  dressed 
all  in  airiest  white,  and  two  of  the  tiniest  little  silk-stock- 
inged, bronze-shod  feet  peep  out  from  her  gown  and 
trouble  the  soul  of  her  young  lover. 

She  is  a  cruel  little  tease.  She  is  delighted  with  her 
new-born  power,  and  uses  it  unmercifully,  revenging  her- 
self upon  this  devoted  slave  for  all  Guy's  coldness  and 
neglect,  as  she  is  pleased  to  call  it.  This  morning  she  has 
had  an  inspiration,  and,  acting  upon  it,  has  left  Guy's 
letter,  received  by  the  morning's  post,  unopened,  and  has 


HERONMERE  S  CONGE.  4x3 

brought  it  down  to  the  boat  to  read,  in  order  to  tease 
Heronmere.  Her  idea  succeeds  admirably ;  he  of  course 
recognizes  the  handwriting  as  she  ostentatiously  breaks 
the  seal,  and  his  handsome  face  undergoes  the  various  al- 
ternations of  vexation,  anger,  and  grief,  as  she,  apparently 
unconscious  of  his  feelings,  or  even  presence,  reads  it 
slowly  through,  smiles,  looks  interested,  re-reads,  and  so 
on.  Little  arch-hypocrite  !  it  does  not  please  or  interest 
her  one  bit ;  on  the  contrary,  it  makes  her  feel  furious,  as 
Guy's  calm,  kind  letters  always  do.  As  she  reads  it  she 
positively  hates  him,  and  it  makes  her  all  the  more  cruel 
to  her  young  adorer.  He,  poor  fellow,  looks  almost 
ready  to  cry ;  the  oars  slacken  in  his  grasp.  Presently  he 
ceases  to  row  at  all,  and  regards  his  fair  vis-d-vis  with  an 
expression  of  distress  and  impatience. 

"Your  letter  seems  vastly  interesting,"  he  says,  pres- 
ently, in  a  piqued  tone.  "  I  wonder  you  managed  to 
keep  it  so  long  without  reading  it." 

"Yes"  (coolly,  without  looking  up),  "it  is  very  inter- 
esting. It  is  from  Guy." 

"Oh!"  (furious)  " of  course,  that  accounts  for  your 
being  so  delighted  with  it." 

"  I  always  like  to  keep  a  bonne  louche,  don't  you  ?"  says 
the  little  witch,  in  an  artless  tone. 

"  Does  he  say  when  he  is  coming  back?" 

"  No"  (coloring  a  little) ;  "  that  is  hardly  likely,  when 
he  has  only  just  arrived." 

"  I  wonder  how  he  could  go  away  and  leave  you,"  says 
Heronmere,  devouring  her  with  his  eyes.  If  he  wants 
to  be  revenged  on  her,  he  could  not  find  a  more  effective 
method,  but  that  is  furthest  from  his  thoughts. 

"  Do  you?"  (coldly).  "That  is  because  you  are  only 
a  boy,  and  don't  understand  these  things." 

"Boy  or  no  boy"  (passionately),  "I  know,  if  I  were 
35* 


414 


DOLORES. 


engaged  to  the  dearest,  sweetest,  loveliest  creature  upon 
God's  earth,  the  biggest  salmon,  or  the  pleasantest  com- 
pany, wouldn't  get  me  away  from  her  for  a  day,  if  I  could 
help  it." 

To  such  a  speech  who  could  make  an  unkind  retort. 
Dolores  relents. 

"  You  are  a  nice,  dear  boy !"  she  smiles  patronizingly, 
"  but  you  are  getting  very  idle,  and  you  must  go  on  row- 
ing immediately.  I  do  not  like  stopping  still." 

But,  disobedient  for  once  to  the  behest  of  his  little 
sovereign,  Heronmere  leaves  his  seat  and  flings  himself 
on  the  cushions  at  her  feet. 

"Dolores,"  he  says,  hotly,  "if  I  am  not  a  man  now, 
when  do  you  think  I  shall  be  one  ?  Can  a  man  feel  more 
at  thirty,  when  he  has  lived  hard,  and  used  up  his  feelings, 
than  he  does  at  one-and-twenty  ?  Does  Guy  love  you 
more  passionately,  more  devotedly  than  I  do?  Would 
he  go  through  fire  and  water  for  you,  as  I  would  now, 
this  instant,  if  I  only  had  the  chance  ?  You  may  think 
it  all  swagger,  because  I  haven't  the  chance ;  but,  upon 
my  soul,  and  as  God  is  above  us,  I  would  now,  this 
minute,  cut  off  my  right  hand,  and  give  up  my  title,  if  I 
could  only  make  you  love  me  as  I  love  you." 

His  words  flow  forth  in  a  torrent  of  passion,  his  chest 
heaves,  the  blood  glows  in  his  cheeks,  and  Dolores  feels, 
for  the  moment,  that  he  is  a  man,  and  not  a  boy,  to  be 
trifled  with.  His  ardor  frightens  her,  but  it  also  inspires 
in  her  a  greater  respect  for  him. 

"Lord  Heronmere,"  she  begins,  blushing,  and  trem- 
bling a  little,  "  I  think  you  forget " 

"  No"  (impetuously),  "I  forget  nothing.  I  know  you 
are  engaged  to  my  cousin  ;  I  know  it  may  seem  dishonor- 
able, my  speaking  to  you  of  love,  but  I  cannot  help  it ;  it 
is  stronger  than  I;  and  oh,  my  darling,  I  don't  think  he 


HERONMERE'S  CONGE. 


415 


loves  you  as  I  do  j  and  I  believe,  upon  my  soul,  if  you 
would  only  trust  me,  I  could  make  you  happier  than  he 
can." 

And  he  seizes  both  her  hands,  and  covers  them  with 
burning  kisses. 

If  such  a  scene  as  this  had  occurred  before  Dolores  had 
resolved  to  give  Guy  up,  she  would  have  felt  intensely 
indignant,  and  probably  dismissed  her  unfortunate  young 
lover  in  a  very  summary  manner ;  but  now,  if  he  does  not 
know  it,  she  knows  that  she  is  doing  no  wrong  to  any 
one  by  listening  to  his  declaration ;  and  although  the  idea 
of  marrying  Lord  Heronmere  never  entered,  and  does  not 
now  enter,  her  brain,  it  soothes  her  wounded  pride  to  feel 
that  he  loves  her  so  dearly. 

"No,"  she  says,  sadly,  replying  to  the  thoughts  his 
words  have  inspired,  "I  don't  think  he  does  love  me  as 
much  as  you  do.  I  don't  even  know  that  he  loves  me  at 
all." 

"Then,  darling,"  cries  Heronmere,  eagerly  pursuing 
his  advantage,  "  if  you  think  that — if  you  feel  that,  won't 
you  rather  take  a  man  who  worships  the  ground  you  walk 
on,  and  who  would  devote  every  hour  of  his  life  to  making 
you  happy?" 

"  But"  (with  a  sorrowful  smile)  "you  forget  one  thing: 
you  say  you  love  me,  but,  though  I  like  you,  I  do  not  love 
you." 

"But  you  would"  (passionately) — "I  would  make  you ! 
Oh"  (the  tears  coming  into  his  blue  eyes),  "  if  you  saw, 
day  after  day,  how  I  loved  you,  how  I  adored  you,  how 
I  could  think  of  nothing  but  to  make  you  happy  and 
to  gratify  your  every  wish,  you  would  come  to  care  for 
me — you  could  not  be  so  hard-hearted  as  not  to  love 
me!" 

The  girl  shakes  her  head. 


41 6  DOLORES. 

"If  I  do  not  marry  Guy,  I  shall  never  marry  any  one 
else." 

"Do  you  love  him  so  much?"  groans  the  poor  boy, 
burying  his  face  in  his  arms.  "Oh,  my  darling,  isn't 
there  anything  in  this  mortal  world  I  can  do  to  win  your 
love  away  from  him?" 

"Come,"  says  the  girl,  softly  laying  her  hand  upon 
him,  as  she  sees  his  stalwart  young  frame  shaking  with 
emotion,  and  conceives  a  horrible  suspicion  that  he  is 
crying,  "  you  shall  always  be  my  dear  friend.  Will  not 
that  do  as  well?" 

But  he  makes  her  no  answer. 

"  Don't — don't  be  unhappy  !"  she  pleads,  tears  of  gen- 
uine distress  coming  into  her  eyes,  as  she  feels  remorse- 
fully that  she  has  been  playing  with  fire  in  encouraging 
Heronmere's  passion.  "Look  at  me"  (trying  with  her 
little  hands  to  raise  his  head  from  his  arms) — "  look  at 
me,  dear,  dear  boy,  and  tell  me  you  won't  be  unhappy ! 
I  have  been  so  miserable  myself,  I  would  not  for  the  world 
make  you  suffer." 

He  looks  up  at  her,  his  face  distorted  with  passionate 
pain,  and  says,  bitterly, — 

"  It  is  my  own  fault;  I  was  a  fool !  I  ought  to  have 
known  it  would  come  to  this.  Bid  me  good-by,  and  I  will 
go  away,  and,  please  God,  never  see  you  again." 

Dolores  is  smitten  with  pain.  She  is  to  lose  him  too, 
and  he  has  made  life  so  pleasant  to  her  lately !  But  it 
must  be  so ;  how  can  she  ask  him  to  stay  ? 

"Dolores"  (with  miserable,  longing  eyes),  "if  I  am 
going  away  from  you  forever,  won't  you  give  me  something 
to  remember  you  by  ?  Kiss  me  once ;  as  he  will  have 
them  all"  (bitterly),  "perhaps  he  won't  begrudge  me 
one." 

She  feels  so  sorry  for  him,  how  can  she  refuse  ?   So  she 


HERONMER&S  CONGE. 


417 


stoops  her  face  to  his.  The  ardent  blood  flames  in  his 
cheek,  he  twines  his  strong  young  arms  round  her,  and 
presses  his  lips  on  hers  as  though  he  would 

"  Breathe  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 
Upon  her  perfect  lips." 

Then  he  is  gone,  leaving  her  crimson,  abashed,  remorseful. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  flings  into  Bertram's  room. 

"Whew ! ' '  says  that  young  man,  with  a  long,  low  whistle, 
as  he  reads  his  friend's  story  in  his  face.  "So  it  is  all 
over,  eh,  old  man?"  Then,  with  a  not  unkind  shake  ot 
the  shoulder,  "Cheer  up,  Kerry;  there  are  as  good  fish 
in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out  of  it,  you  know." 

"  They  may  stop  there  for  me ;  and  I  wish  to  God  I 
was  with  them,  at  the  bottom  of  it !"  says  the  poor  lad, 
who  is  very  hard  hit.  "  I  never  knew  how  I  loved  her 
till  to-day." 

"  Poor  old  boy !"  ejaculates  his  compassionate  friend,  at 
a  loss  what  to  suggest  by  way  of  comfort.  "Let's  run  up 
to  town,  and  have  a  big  dinner,  and  go  to  the  theatre, 
and  make  a  night  of  it." 

"Why,  Bertram"  (reproachfully),  "do  you  think  I've 
got  any  heart  left  for  big  dinners  and  the  theatre  ? — and 
do  you  imagine  that  a  lot  of  horrid  painted  creatures 
could  console  me  for  the  loss  of  that  angel  ?" 

"Well,"  replies  his  friend  apologetically,  "you  must 
do  something.  You  can't  stop  here,  eating  your  heart 
out,  within  five  miles  of  her,  you  know ;  and,  I  believe, 
going  rather  to  the  devil  for  a  little  is  the  best  cure  when 
a  woman  has  turned  you  over.  But  tell  me,  old  fellow, 
how  did  it  come  about  ?  You've  seemed  so  tremendously 
chirpy  and  hopeful  lately." 

"I  don't  know.     We  were  out  in  the  boat  together, 

2B 


4i  8  DOLORES. 

and,  somehow,  I  lost  my  head  a  little,  and  it  all  came 
out." 

"And  did  she  fly  in  a  rage,  and  declare  she  had 
never  given  you  any  encouragement  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing?" 

"  No,"  groans  poor  Heronmere ;  "  she  behaved  like  an 
angel,  and  begged  me  not  to  be  unhappy,  and  seemed 
quite  cut  up  about  it.  Oh,  if  I  hadn't  been  such  an  ass, 
and  could  have  held  my  confounded  tongue,  I  should  have 
been  with  her  now,  this  minute  !  And  now  it's  all  over" 
(laying  his  head  on  the  table),  "  and  I  shall  never  see  her 
again  !  Bertie,  old  boy,  the  kindest  thing  you  could  do 
for  me  would  be  to  put  a  bullet  through  me ;  I  shall  never 
get  over  this — never  !" 

Meanwhile,  Dolores  is  nearly  as  unhappy.  She  has  lost 
her  friend  and  playfellow,  and  until  this  moment  she  has 
not  known  how  fond  she  had  grown  of  him.  Not  fond  in 
the  sense  that  she  has  been  fond  of  Guy ;  but  was  he  not 
the  brightest,  cheeriest,  pleasantest  companion  she  has 
ever  had  in  her  life  ?  And  now  it  will  all  be  so  dull  and 
stupid  again  !  The  horses  are  ordered  for  the  afternoon, 
but  there  will  be  no  ride,  no  billiards  after  lunch,  no  fun 
and  laughter.  And  how  is  she  to  account  for  his  absence 
to  Lady  Wentworth? 

The  girl  remains  lying  despondently  in  the  boat  until 
the  lunch-bell  rings,  and  then  wends  her  way,  with  re- 
luctant feet,  to  the  house.  There  are  two  covers  laid  for 
lunch.  Lady  Wentworth  is  not  down ;  and,  after  Do- 
lores has  taken  her  place,  Walkinshaw  still  stands  mo- 
tionless, waiting  for  the  guest. 

"Lord  Heronmere  does  not  lunch  here  to-day,"  says 
the  girl,  blushing. 

"Oh,  indeed,  miss — I  beg  your  pardon." 

And,  with  an  imperturbable   countenance,  the  butler 


HERONMERE'S  CONGE. 


419 


hands  her  dish  after  dish.  She  makes  a  pretense  of  eat- 
ing something,  and  says, — 

"Please  do  not  wait,  Walkinshaw — I  am  not  going  to 
eat  anything  more." 

He  retires,  his  face  still  inscrutable,  but  his  mind  con- 
siderably at  work. 

"Just  as  I  thought,"  he  says  to  himself.  "I  knew  it 
must  come  to  this  sooner  or  later.  She  seems  rather  cut 
up,  however ;  but  she's  a  kind-hearted  little  thing ;  and 
I  don't  suppose,  being  so  took  up  with  Sir  Guy,  she  as 
much  as  suspected  what  this  one  was  after.  Poor  young 
chap!  Still,  he  had  no  business  to  come  poaching  on 
other  folks'  preserves." 

How  dull  and  long  the  afternoon  seems  !  how  the  girl 
misses  Heronmere's  cheery  voice  and  laugh,  and  wishes  a 
thousand  times  she  had  not  let  him  go  !  When  Lady 
Wentworth  asks  why  her  nephew  has  left  so  early,  she 
replies,  with  some  confusion,  that  she  thinks  his  friend 
does  not  like  being  left  so  much  alone.  The  elder  lady 
is  at  that  moment  engaged  upon  a  rather  elaborate  flower 
in  her  wool-work,  and  fails  to  notice  Dolores's  embarrass- 
ment. 

The  next  day  rises  bright,  hot,  and  beautiful,  but,  oh, 
how  dull  and  long  it  seems  !  Poor  little  Eve  wanders 
melancholy  in  Paradise  without  her  companion,  and  finds 
no  scent  in  the  flowers,  no  brightness  in  the  sunshine,  no 
sweetness  in  the  birds'  songs.  She  is  certainly  not  in  love 
with  Heronmere,  but  she  is  in  love  with  laughter  and 
gayety ;  and  while  he  came  every  day  she  had  reveled  in 
both. 

Marcelline  makes  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  state  of  affairs. 

"Where  then  is  the  young  milord?"  she  asks  her 
young  mistress  the  day  after  the  scene  in  the  boat :  "is 
he  not  coming  back  any  more  ?  " 


420  DOLORES. 

"I  do  not  know"  (rather  pettishly). 

"Poor  young  man  1"  pursues  Marcelline,  with  a  side- 
long glance.  "  I  met  him  yesterday  flying  on  his  horse 
down  the  Park,  and  he  did  not  stop  to  have  a  word  and 
a  laugh  with  me,  as  he  always  does.  Mademoiselle  has 
been  cruel  to  him,  perhaps  ?  Oh,  it  is  easy  to  see  what 
ails  the  poor  young  milord.  If  now  Mademoiselle  were 
not  promised  to  his  cousin,  what  a  grand  marriage  she 
might  have  made  !  One  said  his  lordship  was  three 
times  as  rich  as  Sir  Ghi. ' ' 

"If  I  had  not  been  promised  to  one,  I  should  never 
have  seen  the  other,"  retorts  Dolores,  pettishly;  "and 
you  are  always  talking  about  marriage — I  hate  the  sound. 
Why  must  we  always  marry  the  moment  one  likes  any 
one?" 

And  she  turns  away  and  goes  into  the  garden. 

"  After  all,"  she  reflects,  "  this  is  very  silly.  Here  are 
we  both  making  ourselves  miserable  apart,  when  we  might 
be  laughing  together.  I  shall  tell  him  to  come  back, 
and  then  I  will  tease  him  out  of  liking  me — too  much,  at 
least." 

She  runs  back  to  the  house  much  lighter  of  heart  than 
when  she  left  it.  There  is  still  half  an  hour  before  the 
post  goes  out,  and  she  writes  her  letter  and  drops  it  in  the 
box  in  the  hall. 

"  DEAR  BOY"  (she  never  calls  him  anything  else),— 
"It  is  too  silly  that  we  should  not  be  friends ;  and  I  have 
wearied  myself  all  to-day  and  all  yesterday  with  wishing 
for  you.  Never  have  I  laughed  once  since  you  left  me ; 
and  I  die  to  hear  your  voice  again,  that  makes  the  house 
sound  so  lively.  Do  come  back  and  be  my  brother, 
which,  after  all,  is  much  nicer ;  and  I  will  always  be  your 
affectionate  sister,  DOLORES." 


HERONMERE  S  RESTORATION.  421 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

HERONMERE'S  RESTORATION. 

HERONMERE  cannot  stand  another  day  in  the  country. 
It  is  the  second  morning  after  his  farewell  to  Dolores ; 
his  things  are  packed,  his  servant  gone  on  with  his  lug- 
gage, and  Bertram  is  just  stepping  into  the  dog-cart  to 
drive  him  to  the  station.  At  this  moment  the  man  comes 
up  the  drive  with  the  letter-bag. 

"I  rather  think  there's  a  letter  in  there  I  don't  want 
the  governor  to  see,"  says  Bertram.  "  Hold  hard." 

"  Hang  it !  we  shall  miss  the  train,"  cries  Heronmere  : 
"we're  late  now." 

"  No  fear.  Here,  Mason,  run  for  the  key — look  sharp, 
there's  a  good  fellow." 

In  another  moment  he  is  ransacking  the  letter-bag. 

"  Here  we  are,  and,  stop  !  there's  one  for  you  too,  in  a 
female  hand.  They  can't  let  you  alone.  All  right,  let 
go."  And  off  dashes  the  bay  mare  down  the  drive. 
"We  shall  do  it  with  five  minutes  to  spare.  Halloo! 
what's  up?"  as  Heronmere  utters  a  sudden  exclamation. 

"By  Jove!"  seeing  the  delighted  expression  of  his 
friend's  face,  "you  don't  mean  to  say  she's  going  to 
throw  Sir  Guy  over  and  take  you?" 

"I  mean  to  say  I'm  not  going  to  London  to-day," 
answers  Heronmere,  with  a  radiant  face.  We'll  go  to  the 
station  and  let  my  man  know ;  and  then,  if  you're  the 
good  fellow  I  take  you  for,  Bertie,  my  boy,  you'll  drive 
me  straight  over  to  Wentworth.  Here,  read  what  the 
little  darling  says." 

36 


422  DOLORES. 

"H'm!"  remarks  Bertram,  dubiously,  as  he  reads — 
"brother — sister — I  don't  see  anything  here  to  account 
for  your  sudden  exhilaration,  Herry ;  it  strikes  me  she 
only  wants  to  make  a  catspaw  of  you  until  the  other  one 
returns." 

"And  if  she  does,  I  don't  care,"  retorts  the  young 
fellow,  joyously  ;  "anyhow,  I  shall  have  her  till  he  does 
come  back,  and  I  don't  care  what  happens  afterwards." 

"The  last  state  of  that  man  was  worse  than  the  first," 
says  Bertram.  "  Better  by  half  take  the  train  now,  and 
get  out  of  her  way.  In  a  month  you'll  have  forgotten  all 
about  her." 

"Don't  waste  your  eloquence,  old  fellow,"  laughs 
Heronmere.  "  Now  she  has  said  she  wants  me,  no  mor- 
tal power  shall  keep  me  away.  Here's  the  station  and 
the  train  in  sight,  by  Jove !  Never  mind,  it  will  go  to 
London  without  me  now.  Hurrah  !  what  a  lucky  thing 
you  stopped  for  the  post-bag !" 

Dolores  is  sitting  at  breakfast,  feeling  very  dismal  and 
lonely,  and  wondering  whether  her  letter  will  succeed  in 
bringing  Heronmere  back,  when  she  hears  the  sound  of 
wheels  coming  up  the  drive  at  a  rapid  pace.  A  moment 
later,  she  catches  sight  of  Heronmere  and  Bertram,  and  a 
flush  of  pleasure  overspreads  her  face.  In  another  moment 
he  is  in  the  room,  and  they  are  exchanging  joyous  greet- 
ings; the  presence  of  Bertram  saves  them  from  any 
embarrassment. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  Walkinshaw  asks  him- 
self; but  his  face  remains  inscrutable  and  bland  as  he 
inquires  if  his  lordship  has  breakfasted. 

"Well,  we  are  supposed  to  have  breakfasted  at  eight, 
but  I  don't  think  we  either  of  us  had  much  appetite — eh, 
Bertram?  I'm  tremendously  hungry  now — yes,  Walkin- 


HERONMERE' S  RESTORATION.  423 

shaw,  I  think  we  can  both  do  with  another  breakfast,  and 
as  soon  as  you  like,  too." 

Lord  Heronmere  is  almost  as  great  a  favorite  in  the 
house  as  Guy ;  from  the  time  when  he  used  to  ride  on 
Walkinshaw's  shoulder,  and  coax  good  things  out  of 
Parker,  plague  the  housemaids,  and  sit  on  the  backs  of 
every  horse  in  the  stable,  he  has  enjoyed  an  unvarying 
popularity ;  and  at  the  present  day,  when  he  has  a  cheery 
word  of  greeting  for  every  servant  in  the  house,  and  a 
hand  that  is  more  often  in  his  pocket  than  out  of  it,  there 
is  not  one  who  would  not  fly  to  do  anything  for  him  with 
almost  as  much  alacrity  as  they  would  for  their  master. 

The  day  is  a  merry  one  for  all  three.  Bertram  is  not 
in  the  least  de  trap;  on  the  contrary,  he  prevents  the 
necessity  for  any  explanations.  Now  and  then  Heronmere 
takes  the  opportunity  of  his  friend's  head  being  discreetly 
averted  to  dart  an  anxious  glance  at  his  adored  one,  or  to 
press  her  hand  rapturously,  and  she  is  too  glad  to  have 
him  back  to  check  these  ebullitions  of  feeling. 

They  row,  play  croquet,  and  ride.  Lady  Wentworth 
sends  down  a  special  invitation  to  the  young  men  to  stay 
and  dine.  She  only  then  makes  her  appearance,  and  all 
dinner-time  her  nephew  devotes  himself  entirely  to  her, 
and  makes  her  laugh  so  much  by  his  lively  sallies  that  she 
declares  he  has  done  her  twice  as  much  good  as  her  doctor, 
and  must  come  over  as  often  as  possible.  It  is  then  that 
this  artful  young  fellow  remarks, — 

"  I  have  to  go  back  to  the  Tower  next  Saturday,  but  I 
shall  get  my  leave  on  the  ist  of  August,  and  then,  auntie, 
if  I  shouldn't  be  too  noisy,  or  bore  you  and  Miss  Power 
too  much,  I  wish  you  would  ask  me  down  to  stay  for  a 
little  while." 

"My  dear,  you  know  you  are  always  welcome.  I  am 
only  afraid  you  will  find  us  so  very  quiet  down  here  that 


4»4  DOLORES. 

it  is  you  who  will  be  bored.  Would  you  not  like  to  bring 
one  or  two  of  your  brother-officers  ?  And  shall  I  ask  your 
cousin  Eleanor?  You  used  to  be  very  fond  of  her." 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,  aunt.  I'd  much  rather"  (with  great 
emphasis)  "have  you  alone.  As  for  our  fellows,  I  see 
quite  enough  of  them  in  town ;  and  Eleanor  is  getting  so 
conceited,  she  isn't  half  as  nice  as  she  was." 

"Wish  me  joy,  old  boy,"  he  cries  to  Bertram,  with  a 
vigorous  slap  on  the  back  that  the  other  would  gladly  dis- 
pense with,  and  that  makes  the  bay  mare  break  into  a 
canter.  "I've  got  my  invitation,  and  7'm  going  there  on 
the  First." 

"Well,"  responds  Bertram,  "I  must  say  your  innamo- 
rata  is  a  deuced  charming  girl,  and  worth  fighting  for. 
Hang  me  if  I  can  understand  your  cousin  going  off  and 
leaving  her!" 

"Thank  God  he  did  !"  (devoutly.) 

"Herry,  my  boy,  don't  be  too  cock-a-hoop!  You 
haven't  got  her  yet.  The  chances  are,  when  he  comes 
she'll  send  you  to  the  devil,  and  I'm  bound  to  say  you'll 
have  no  one  to  blame  but  yourself." 

"  Bertie"  (shyly),  "  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  question." 

"  Ask  away." 

"And  you'll  promise  to  tell  me  exactly  what  you 
think?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  know  what  that  means.  You  want  me  to 
say  exactly  what  you  want." 

"  No — upon  my  soul !  Do  you"  (hesitating) — "  should 
you  think,  at  all,  from  her  manner,  that  she  cares  about 
me — just  a  very  little,  you  know  ?' ' 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  think"  (after  a  pause),  "but  you 
won't  like  it.  I  think  she  cares  a  good  deal  for  you,  but, 
just  as  she  wrote,  as  a  sister.  I  don't  think  she's  in  love 
with  you." 


HERONMERE'S  RESTORATION.  435 

Heronmere  looks  disconsolate. 

"I'll  tell  you  another  thing,  old  fellow.  You'll  have 
to  be  a  little  more  guarded,  if  you  stay  there.  Lady 
Wentworth  has  not  the  slightest  suspicion  of  your  feel- 
ings, but  I  know  some  one  who  has,  and  that's  that  very 
gentleman-like  old  butler,  Walkingstick,  or  whatever  you 
call  him." 

"  He  !"  cries  Heronmere,  derisively.  "  He  never  sees 
half  an  inch  before  his  nose." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it !  Servants  are  the  devil — they 
see  and  know  everything ;  the  butler  tells  the  housekeeper, 
the  housekeeper  the  lady's-maid,  and  one  day,  while  she's 
doing  your  aunt's  back  hair,  she'll  let  out  the  whole  thing. 
You're  blessed  with  what  they  call  '  a  very  speaking  coun- 
tenance,/ old  boy,  and  as  much  discretion  as  most  ensigns 
of  one-and-twenty ;  so  look  out  and  mind  what  I  tell 
you. ' ' 

"And  pray  what  makes  you  so  wise,  Bertie?" 

"  Experience,  of  course.  My  aunt  had  a  very  jolly 
little  girl  as  companion — I  didn't  the  least  mind  being 
down  here  for  a  month  at  a  time  then ;  my  aunt  never 
noticed  anything,  nor  Uncle  Fred  either,  for  a  wonder, 
until  my  precious  fool  jabbered  to  the  lady's-maid,  who 
went  straight  to  my  aunt.  Finale,  dismissal  of  poor  little 
companion,  and  the  devil  to  pay  for  self." 

"  All  right,  I'll  be  careful.  Thanks  for  the  hint ;  but  I 
assure  you,  as  far  as  Walkinshaw  is  concerned,  you're  quite 
mistaken." 

But  Bertram  is  right,  and  Heronmere  wrong. 

"So!"  says  Walkinshaw,  to  himself,  "he's  going  to 
stop,  is  he  ?  Well,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  like  the 
lad,  and  he  livens  up  the  place  wonderfully ;  but  my  first 
duty  is  to  Sir  Guy,  and  I'm  not  the  man  to  see  things 
going  on  under  my  nose  he  wouldn't  approve  of  without 

36* 


426  DOLORES. 

giving  him  warning.  So,  if  things  don't  go  on  as  I 
like  when  my  lord  comes  to  stop,  I  shall  just  give  Sir 
Guy  a  hint  that  will  bring  him  back  in  double  quick 
time." 

During  the  three  days  that  remain  of  his  leave,  Heron - 
mere  is  discretion  itself  in  the  presence  of  his  aunt  and 
Walkinshaw ;  and  even  when  alone  with  Dolores  he  does 
not  speak  of  his  love,  though  he  conveys  it  amply  by 
glances  and  sighs  and  pressures  of  the  little  hand,  which 
is  not  now  unkindly  withheld  from  him. 

"What  shall  I  do  without  you  for  a  whole  fortnight?" 
he  says  to  her,  in  a  melancholy  voice,  the  day  before  he 
is  to  leave. 

"I  also  shall  miss  you,"  she  answers.  "Dreadfully! 
I  dare  say  much  more  than  you  will  miss  me.  You  will 
have  all  your  friends  and  your  gay  parties  and  your  rides 
in  the  Park." 

"Not  much  of  that.  Why,  I'm  at  the  Tower,  you 
know,  and  can  hardly  ever  get  away.  You  can't  think 
how  dull  and  monotonous  it  is — nothing  but  Guards  and 
Pickets,  and  the  delightful  exercise  of  walking  in  the 
Tower  gardens." 

"But  it  must  be  very  interesting,  the  Tower,"  says 
Dolores. 

"Oh,  immensely!"  (laughing).  "But  that  sort  of 
thing  rather  palls  upon  one  after  a  time.  It's  very  nice 
when  you  get  some  pretty  women  to  come  out  and  lunch 
and  go  over  it.  I  don't  think  we  trouble  the  interesting 
part  of  it  much  at  any  other  time." 

"Well"  (with  a  little  tone  of  pique),  "you  can  get 
your  pretty  women,  and  then  it  will  no  longer  be  dull." 

"Oh,  Dolores!"  (reproachfully),  "as  if  you  didn't 
know  that  I  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for  all  the  pretty  women 
in  the  world  but  one !  I  shall  do  nothing  but  think  of 


HERONMERE'S  RESTORATION.  427 

you  all  the  time.  If  I  only  had  a  picture  of  you ! — even 
the  very  poorest  photograph.  Haven't  you  ever  been 
taken!" 

"No"  (shaking  her  head),  "not  in  a  photograph." 

Lord  Heronmere  suddenly  bethinks  himself  that  in  the 
town  of  Allington,  some  seven  miles  distant,  there  is  a 
photographer. 

"I  wonder,"  he  says,  eagerly,  "if  you  would  do  me 
a  most  tremendous  favor.1' 

"  I  dare  say  I  would"  (smiling).     "  What  is  it?" 

"Let  us  ride  over  to  Allington  this  afternoon,  and  be 
photographed.  We  might  as  well  go  there  as  anywhere 
else." 

"  I  do  not  mind,  but  we  must  ask  Lady  Wentworth 
first." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  and  then  you  will  give  me  one,  won't 
you?" 

"Yes,  if  you  will  give  me  one  of  yours  too." 

"  I  shall  be  too  proud.  Will  you  look  at  it  once  now 
and  then?" 

"  Every  day ;  and  wish  you  were  here." 

Lady  Wentworth  gives  a  ready  consent  when  her  per- 
mission is  asked.  She  is  only  too  glad  of  anything  that 
can  divert  Dolores  from  fretting  about  Guy,  as  she  firmly 
believes  the  girl  is  doing. 

The  local  photographer  is  in  raptures  at  the  honor  of 
faking  his  lordship  and  this  beautiful  young  lady,  and  is 
at  his  utmost  pains  to  make  successful  pictures  of  them. 
When  Dolores  has  left  the  shop,  Heronmere  runs  back  to 
the  artist. 

"On  second  thoughts,"  he  says,  "you  had  better  for- 
ward the  proofs  to  me  at  the  Tower ;  and,  mind,  I  shall 
rely  upon  having  them  on  Wednesday  at  the  latest." 

"  On  Wednesday,  my  lord — Wednesday  without  fail," 


428  DOLORES. 

bows  the  photographer;  "and  if  possible,  my  lord,  on 
Tuesday. ' ' 

He  is  true  to  his  word,  and  on  Tuesday  Heronmere  is 
overjoyed  at  receiving  a  really  very  respectable  likeness  of 
his  adored  one.  He  proceeds  at  once  to  have  it  copied  on 
ivory,  and  on  the  same  day  sends  for  a  beautiful  painted 
miniature  of  himself,  which  he  blushes  to  think  he  had 
ordered  a  month  previously  for  some  one  else.  It  has 
been  a  great  trouble  to  him  that  he  cannot  show  his  de- 
votion to  Dolores  by  making  her  magnificent  presents; 
but  this  he  dare  not  even  think  of.  Here,  however,  is  an 
opening.  He  takes  the  miniature,  intended  for  a  locket, 
to  Hancock's,  and  orders  it  to  be  set  in  big  diamonds, 
reflecting  that,  if  he  only  had  it  inclosed  in  a  locket,  she 
would  probably  take  out  the  portrait  and  return  the  cadre; 
but  if  the  portrait  is  framed  in  diamonds,  she  will  not  be 
able  to  detach  the  one  from  the  other,  and  will  probably 
consent  to  keep  both.  When  his  order  is  executed,  he 
sends  off  the  case  to  Dolores,  with  a  little  note,  entreat- 
ing her  humbly  to  wear  this  small  token  of  affection  for 
his  sake ;  but  if  she  considers  he  has  been  too  conceited 
in  having  himself  framed  ornamentally,  that  she  will  tear 
off  the  frame  and  throw  it  behind  the  fire;  but  at  all 
events  keep  the  picture. 

When  she  opens  the  case  and  sees  the  diamonds,  Do- 
lores is  extremely  embarrassed,  and  makes  up  her  mind 
that  they  must  be  returned,  for,  although  she  is  ignorant 
of  their  real  value,  she  knows  the  trinket  must  be  costly, 
and  therefore  objects  to  accept  it.  But  the  portrait  is  so 
charming,  it  is  such  a  handsome,  frank  face  that  beams 
out  upon  her  from  the  splendid  setting — she  has  not  the 
heart  to  send  that  back — she  turns  it  over  several  times 
to  see  if  she  cannot  take  it  from  the  diamonds,  which  she 
resolves  not  to  accept ;  but  that  is  utterly  impossible.  So 


HERONMERE  S  RESTORATION. 


429 


she  contents  herself  with  writing  to  him  that  she  is  de- 
lighted with  his  picture,  but  that  he  must  have  it  taken 
from  its  present  setting  if  he  wishes  her  to  keep  it. 
Meantime  she  puts  it  on  the  chain  that  has  been  used  to 
hold  Guy's  picture,  which,  since  his  departure,  she  has 
discarded,  and  wears  it  under  her  dress,  not  unfrequently 
taking  it  out  to  look  at  when  she  is  alone. 

During  the  fortnight  that  he  is  absent,  Dolores  finds 
plenty  to  occupy  her.  Lady  Wentworth  has  a  slight 
attack  of  congestion  of  the  lungs,  and  the  girl  nurses  her 
with  an  unwearying  devotion  and  tenderness  that  attach 
the  elder  lady  daily  more  to  her.  It  is  two  days  before 
the  time  for  Heronmere's  visit,  when  Dolores  timidly 
suggests  to  his  aunt  that  she  had  better  write  and  ask  him 
to  postpone  his  visit.  Lady  Wentworth  will  not  hear  of 
such  a  sacrifice. 

"Not  for  the  world,  my  love,"  she  says.  "You  have 
had  too  much  confinement  lately,  and  are  losing  your 
roses  again.  I  don't  know  what  Guy  would  say  if  he 
came  back  and  found  you  looking  ill.  No,  Regy  is  so 
lively,  and  you  seem  such  capital  friends,  his  visit  is  just 
Apropos,  and  will  do  you  all  the  good  in  the  world. 
Besides,  now  I  am  able  to  sit  up,  I  shall  like  to  have 
him ;  he  always  amuses  me,  and  is  never  in  the  way. ' ' 

So  Heronmere  comes  and  takes  up  his  abode  with  great 
joy  at  the  Court,  and  Walkinshaw  prepares  himself  to 
keep  watch  over  the  two  young  people.  True,  there  is  a 
cousin  of  Lady  Wentworth's — a  good-natured,  elderly 
lady,  who  arrives  on  her  annual  visit  the  last  day  of  July, 
and  seems  a  kind  of  chaperon  generally ;  but  she  spends 
a  good  deal  of  time  in  her  own  apartments,  and  is,  besides, 
the  most  unsuspicious  mortal  in  the  world. 

After  dinner,  Heronmere,  who  has  been  wishing  the  old 
iady  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake  all  the  evening,  challenges 


43° 


DOLORES. 


Dolores  to  a  stroll  in  the  gardens.  They  are  full  of  health 
and  spirits,  and,  once  out  in  the  garden,  they  race  together 
down  the  slopes,  like  a  couple  of  children  let  loose  from 
school.  A  slight  trip  that  Dolores  makes  over  her  dress 
gives  Heronmere  a  delightful  opportunity  of  catching  her 
in  his  arms,  and,  carried  away  for  the  moment  by  his  joy 
at  being  with  her  again,  he  kisses  her  sweet  red  lips  as  he 
holds  her.  But  she  is  angry  and  offended. 

"I  am  sorry  you  have  come,"  she  says,  with  tears  of 
indignation  in  her  eyes.  "I  shall  go  back  into  the 
house. ' ' 

Whereupon  the  young  fellow  falls,  in  great  contrition, 
upon  his  knees,  and  implores  pardon  with  so  much  pathos 
and  humility  that  Dolores  is  obliged  at  last  to  condone 
the  offense. 

"I  have  something  to  give  you,  my  lord,"  she  says, 
presently,  drawing  his  miniature  from  her  neck.  He  is 
delighted  to  see  that  she  has  actually  been  wearing  it. 

"If  you  call  me  my  lord,"  he  says,  laughing,  "/shall 
go  back  to  the  house.  I  would  rather  hear  you  say  '  dear 
boy.'  " 

"Well,  then"  (relenting),  "dear  boy,  I  have  some- 
thing to  give  you."  And  she  takes  the  miniature  from 
the  chain,  and  holds  it  towards  him. 

"  So  you  don't  care  to  have  my  picture?"  (in  a  piqued 
voice);  "see  how  I  treasure  yours."  And  he,  too,  pulls 
from  his  breast  a  miniature,  set  just  like  the  other. 

She  give  a  little  cry  of  delight  as  she  recognizes  in  the 
half-light  a  lovely  picture  of  herself,  only  much  too  pretty, 
she  thinks.  "  Oh,  do  give  it  to  me,  dear  boy — do  give  it 
to  me!" 

"Not  this  one!"  clasping  his  hand  over  hers ;  "another, 
if  you  like,  but  not  this.  And  I  suppose  I  may  take  mine 
back,  as  you  don't  seem  to  value  it?" 


HERONMERE'S  RESTORATION. 


43' 


"  Not  the  picture — only  the  diamonds.  I  love  the 
picture.  I  have  looked  at  it  hundreds  of  times,  and 
almost  fancied  it  spoke  to  me." 

"  Have  you,  darling  ? — then  why  not  go  on  wearing  it  ? 
What  do  the  trumpery  diamonds  matter?" 

"  No"  (firmly).  "  I  know  they  must  be  very  valuable, 
and  I  cannot  take  them ;  only  remove  them  from  the  pic- 
ture, and  I  shall  be  too  delighted  to  have  it." 

They  are  standing  by  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  Heron- 
mere  takes  the  trinket  quietly  from  her  hand. 

"  Very  well,"  he  says,  with  a  resolute  expression  in  his 
blue  eyes  that  Dolores  has  not  seen  there  before.  "  You 
have  made  up  your  mind  not  to  have  the  diamonds,  and 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  they  shall  not  be  parted 
from  the  picture ;  and  if  you  don't  have  the  two  together,  no 
one  else  shall."  And  the  rash  young  fellow  raises  his  arm, 
and  in  another  moment  eight  hundred  pounds'  worth  of 
diamonds  would  have  been  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the 
lake,  if  Dolores  had  not,  quick  as  lightning,  seized  his 
hand. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  wicked  !"  she  cries.  "Give  it 
back  to  me." 

"No"  (resolutely);  "not  unless  you  give  me  your 
sacred  promise  to  keep  and  wear  it  as  it  is." 

"  I  cannot ;  it  is  too  valuable." 

"  Will  it  be  more  valuable  at  the  bottom  of  the  water  ?" 

"  Oh,  pray,  pray  don't  be  so  foolish  !"  cries  the  girl, 
in  genuine  distress.  "  I  long  so  to  keep  the  picture  1" 

"Well,  promise  me." 

She  hesitates. 

"You  won't?  Then  here  goes."  And  he  raises  his 
hand  again. 

"I  promise"  (breathlessly).  Then,  as  he  slips  it  on 
the  chain  again  and  clasps  it  round  her  neck,  "You  are 


432  DOLORES. 

an  unkind  boy,  to  make  me  do  things  I  do  not  wish 
to." 

"I  suppose  you  are  afraid  of  Guy  discovering  it  some 
day,  when  you  are  married  to  him,"  he  says,  bitterly. 
"By  heaven!"  (fiercely  seizing  her  two  hands  in  his, 
and  speaking  with  violent  passion),  "If  you  marry  him 
now,  I  shall  blow  my  brains  out  on  your  wedding-night !" 

"I  am  not  going  to  marry  him,"  whispers  Dolores, 
in  a  frightened  voice. 

"  Not  going  to  marry  him !  Upon  your  oath — not 
going  to  marry  him?"  (feverishly). 

"  I  have  told  you  I  am  not." 

"And  does  he  know  it?"  (eagerly). 

"  I  have  told  him  so." 

"But"  (incredulously)  "he  does  not  believe  you." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  he  believes ;  but  I  have  told  him 
so,  and  I  mean  it." 

"Then"  (triumphantly),  "you  shall  be  mine! — I  swear 
it."  And  regardless  of  all  his  vows  and  promises  only  ten 
minutes  before,  he  clasps  the  girl  once  more  in  his  fer- 
vent embrace. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

TIME  TO   INTERFERE. 

WHEN  Lord  Heronmere  has  been  a  week  at  the  Court, 
it  occurs  to  Dolores,  for  the  first  time,  that  it  might  be 
better  to  be  Lady  Heronmere  than  to  go  back  to  her  deso- 
late home  in  Rouen,  with  nothing  to  look  forward  to  but 
a  dull,  weary  life  and  comparative  poverty.  She  is  grow- 
ing fond  of  him,  in  a  calm,  even  sort  of  way,  very  differ- 


TIME    TO  INTERFERE. 


433 


ent  from  her  passionate  attachment  for  Guy ;  but  she  is 
happy  in  his  society;  he  always  keeps  her  cheerful  and 
amused,  and  she  feels  no  reluctance  at  the  thought  of 
spending  the  rest  of  her  life  in  his  company.  But  she 
sees  a  great  many  more  difficulties  in  the  way  of  transfer- 
ring her  hand  and  affections  to  him  than  ever  occur  to 
the  hot-headed,  willful  young  viscount ;  and,  before  all 
things,  she  remembers  how,  when  she  believed,  in  the 
days  gone  by,  that  she  had  completely  forgotten  Guy,  and 
been  ready  to  marry  another  man, — how  the  mere  sight 
of  him  again  had  brought  back  all  the  old  love  and  made 
it  seem  utterly  impossible.  And  might  this  not  happen 
again  on  his  return,  if  she  promised  herself  to  Heron- 
mere  ?  She  cannot  tell ;  she  believes  that  she  has  ousted 
Guy  from  her  heart,  but  that  former  experience  makes 
her  hesitate.  Then  again,  under  Guy's  own  roof,  in  the 
daily  companionship  of  his  mother,  who  already  looks 
upon  her  as  a  daughter,  would  it  be  honorable  to  promise 
herself  to  another  man,  even  though  she  believes  he  would 
rejoice,  rather  than  regret  it?  Again, — she  feels  very 
doubtful  how  Lady  Heronmere  will  receive  her.  She 
knows  perfectly  well  that  that  lady  has  far  different  expec- 
tations for  her  son,  and  is  perfectly  conscious  that,  if  she 
was  an  unsuitable  match  for  Guy,  che  would  be  ten  times 
more  so  for  his  cousin. 

Since  Dolores's  confession  that  her  engagement  with 
Guy  is  broken  off,  Lord  Heronmere  has  been  intensely 
hopeful  and  radiant.  If  he  no  longer  has  Guy  to  fear  as 
a  rival,  she  must  be  his,  he  thinks.  He  talks  to  her  with 
joyous  confidence  about  their  fature,  drawing  pictures  that 
might  have  dazzled  a  more  ambitious  mind  than  hers,  but 
in  truth  her  greatest  idea  of  bliss  is  neither  grandeur  nor 
riches,  but  to  be  happy,  loving,  and  beloved.  It  is  de- 
lightful to  her  to  be  worshiped  as  she  is  by  Heronmere, 
2C  37 


434  DOLORES. 

with  an  ardent  demonstrativeness  such  as  youth  loves,  and 
which  is  certainly  convincing.  But  she  does  not  want 
him  to  make  sure  of  her,  lest  that  should  happen  which 
she  fears  when  Guy  returns.  So  one  day,  as  they  are 
riding  out  together,  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  tell  him 
about  Philip.  With  many  burning  blushes  she  tells  her 
story,  and  with  much  shame  and  contrition  too.  As 
Heronmere  listens,  his  bright,  joyous  face  becomes  crest- 
fallen, he  chafes  with  inward  irritation,  and  falls,  as  youth 
is  prone,  from  the  summit  of  hope  to  the  abyss  of  despair. 

"So,"  he  says,  presently,  his  voice  trembling,  and  a 
miserable  look  overspreading  his  face,  "it  only  wants  a 
fortnight  to  his  coming  back,  and  you  are  preparing  to 
shunt  me.  I  suppose  you  only  intended  all  along  to  make 
use  of  me  to  pass  the  time  !" 

"Don't  be  unjust,"  she  answers,  her  color  rising. 
"  Have  I  ever  once  led  you  to  think  that  I  intended  to 
marry  you?" 

"You  have  never  said  so,  certainly"  (in  a  gloomy 
voice),  "but  you  said  you  did  not  mean  to  marry  him." 

"  Nor  do  I"  (resolutely) :  "  that  is  quite  certain." 

"Then  "  (passionately)  "  am  I  such  a  repulsive  brute 
that  you  would  rather  face  a  miserable  life  in  the  future 
than  accept  everything  I  could  give  you  as  my  wife?  " 

"  Dear  boy,"  she  answers,  very  sweetly,  "  I  love  you  ! 
I  always  shall  love  you;  but  don't  you  think  it  is  more 
fair  of  me  to  tell  you  the  truth  now  than  to  make  you 
unhappy  by-and-by?  I  do  not  know  that  it  will  hap- 
pen— in  my  heart  I  do  not  believe  it  will — but  if  one  has 
been  so  foolish  once,  one  must  be  prepared  against 
another  time.  But,  come  what  will,  I  shall  never  marry 
him,  because"  (her  voice  faltering)  "he  does  not — he 
never  has  loved  me." 

"Will  you  promise  me  one  thing?"  says  Heronmere, 


TIME    TO   INTERFERE. 


435 


looking  very  miserable,  and  casting  about  to  extract  the 
only  comfort  he  can  from  the  situation.  "Will  you 
promise  me  that,  if,  when  Guy  comes  back,  you  don't 
feel  you  care  so  very  much  about  him,  you  will  have  me?" 

"Yes"  (smiling),  "I  promise.  Only,  hasn't  it  ever 
struck  you  what  a  difficult  position  it  would  be,  being  in 
his  own  house  and  every  one  thinking  one  was  to  marry 
him?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it's  awkward ;  but  I've  settled  it  all  in 
n.y  own  mind.  We  must  run  away  !" 

"  Run  away!"  (aghast). 

"  Oh,  yes ;  it's  as  easy  as  possible.  Marcelline  would 
gc  with  us.  We  wouldn't  leave  any  clue,  and  in  a  day 
or  so  we  could  be  married.  And  then"  (joyfully)  "  I'll 
fight  him,  or  give  him  any  other  satisfaction  he  likes  to 
demand." 

The  state  of  Lord  Heronmere's  affections  has  been 
very  freely  commented  upon  in  the  servants'  hall — still 
more  in  the  house-keeper's  room.  Walkinshaw  says  very 
little,  but  his  mind  is  uneasy.  Mrs.  Parker,  the  lady's- 
maid,  the.  upper-housemaid,  and  my  lord's  valet,  have 
much  discussion  upon  the  subject,  when  Marcelline  is  not 
of  the  party. 

"There's  no  doubt  about  one  thing,"  says  Parker, 
emphatically — "my  lord's  head  over  ears  in  love  with 
her.  What  I  can't  make  out  is,  whether  she  thinks  any- 
thing of  him  more  than  his  being  Sir  Guy's  cousin.  She's 
always  very  lively  and  laughing  with  him,  and  they're 
hardly  ever  apart ;  but  if  ever  I  saw  any  one  in  love,  she 
was  with  Sir  Guy  before  he  went  away.  It's  my  opinion 
he  hadn't  ought  to  have  gone  away  and  left  her." 

"  Tut,  tut,"  remarks  Walkinshaw,  who  will  never  hear 
a  word  against  his  master ;  "a  man  can't  always  be  tied 
to  a  woman's  apron-string,  particularly  when  he  knows 


436  DOLORES. 

he's  got  to  live  with  her  all  the  rest  of  his  life.  And 
where  is  he  to  think  she's  safe,  if  it  isn't  under  his  own 
roof  with  his  own  mother?" 

"  I  do  wonder  my  lady  is  so  blind  to  it  all,"  puts  in 
her  ladyship's  maid.  "To  be  sure,  she  don't* see  much 
of  them  together;  but  when  I've  been  in  the  room  some- 
times, I've  seen  him  look  as  if  he  could  eat  her  up;  he 
doesn't  seem  to  have  any  idea  of  hiding  his  feelings." 

"Well,"  interposes  Walkinshaw,  testily,  "I  almost 
wonder  you  haven't  thought  to  give  her  ladyship  a  hint. 
You  have  so  many  opportunities,  being,  as  I  may  say,, 
drawn  so  very  near  to  her  ladyship." 

"  Oh,  I've  made  it  my  rule  through  life  never  to  inter- 
fere in  families,"  returns  Mrs.  Simpson,  loftily,  "  or  I 
shouldn't  have  been  in  them  the  years  upon  years  that  I 
have  been." 

"I  must  say  that  they  do  make  a  lovely  couple,"  re- 
marks the  upper-housemaid,  a  comely,  good-natured 
woman;  "and,  much  as  I  like  Sir  Guy,  I  must  say  he 
doesn't  seem  so  suitable  as  my  lord.  He  is  a  handsome, 
kind  young  feller,  and,  Lord !  how  he  does  dote  on  Miss 
Power !  I  found  the  loveliest  picture  of  her  in  his  bed 
this  morning,  all  set  round  with  great  diamonds.  I  sup- 
pose it  slipped  off  his  neck  as  he  lay  asleep ;  and  just  as 
I  was  looking  at  it,  he  rushes  in,  and  sees  me  with  it,  and 
gets  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock.  Then  he  laughs,  and  says, 
'  Exchange  is  no  robbery,'  and  slips  a  sovereign  into  ray 
hand." 

"  There'll  be  the  deuce  to  pay  with  the  dowager  viscount- 
ess, if  it  comes  to  any  thing,"  here  says  Mr.  James, 
Heronmere's  valet. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  replies  Walkinshaw,  severely,  "  that 
if  she's  good  enough  for  Sir  Guy  she's  good  enough  for 
my  lord  ;  for  if  one  is  a  viscount,  and  the  other  a  baronet, 


TIME    TO  INTERFERE.  437 

my  master's  family  is  older  by  a  couple  of  hundred  years 
than  my  lord's." 

"  Of  course — of  course,"  says  James,  soothingly ;  "  only 
my  lady  does  look  so  high  for  him — nothing  under  a 
dock's  daughter  would  please  her.  Last  year  she  had  three 
of  'em  staying  with  her — there  was  my  Lady  Jacintha, 
Lady  Constantia,  and  Lady  Frederica,  each  one  plainer  than 
the  other,  and  I  heard  him  say  to  his  ma,  '  Mother,  if  you 

ask  those  d d  ugly,  freckled  women  here  again'  (saving 

your  presence,  ladies,  but  my  lord  is  a  little  free  in  his 
speech),  'I  won't  come  home  at  all.'  But  there,  he's 
much  too  young  to  be  married,  only  the  ladies  are  always 
after  him,  and  inviting  of  him,  and  making  much  of  him 
— wantin'  to  ride,  and  dance,  and  play  croquet,  and  make 
little  bookies  for  his  button-hole,  and  ready  to  tear  each 
other's  eyes  out  about  him.  I've  seen  a  deal  of  it,  staying 
in  coantry  houses.  This  is  the  first  time  he's  ever  had 
an  obstacle,  and  I  don't  doubt  that's  what  makes  him  so 
keen.  I  never  saw  him  half  so  mad  about  anybody  before." 

This  talk  takes  place  a  very  few  days  after  Lord  Heron- 
mere's  arrival  at  the  Court,  and  Walkinshaw  makes  up 
his  mind  that  it  is  time  to  give  a  hint  to  his  master  of  the 
state  of  affairs.  He  has  tried  to  instill  into  Parker  and 
Simpson  the  propriety  of  opening  Lady  Wentworth's  eyes ; 
but  these  ladies  have  other  ideas  in  view.  If  Miss  Power 
marries  Sir  Guy,  their  hated  rival  Marcelline  will  be  estab- 
lished at  the  Court  once  for  all ;  but  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  she  marries  Lord  Heronmere,  she  is  at  once  and 
forever  removed  from  their  path,  for  such  a  marriage  will 
not  be  followed  by  much  visiting  between  the  two  families. 
Neither  has  said  as  much  to  the  other,  but  they  perfectly 
understand  each  other,  and  are  even  prepared,  if  necessary, 
to  throw  dust  into  her  ladyship's  eyes,  should  they  show 
symptoms  of  opening.  As  for  old  Mrs.  Conway,  the  fact 

37* 


438  DOLORES. 

of  Dolores  being  engaged  to  Guy,  and  shortly  about  to 
marry  him,  utterly  precludes  the  idea  of  any  possibility  of 
any  one  else  making  love  to  her.  Heronmere  is  Guy's 
cousin — he  is  a  very  lively  young  fellow,  brimful  of  life 
and  spirits,  and  no  wonder  the  two  take  pleasure  in  each 
other's  society. 

So  Walkinshaw,  in  despair,  seeing  no  help  at  hand  from 
any  quarter,  takes  upon  himself  the  onerous  duty  of  giving 
a  hint  to  Sir  Guy.  The  letter  costs  him  a  sleepless  night, 
but  he  writes  it,  and  with  trembling  hands  puts  it  in  the 
post-bag. 

"I'm  sure,  Sir  Guy, you' II  believe  "  he  writes,  "that  I 
have  only  one  motive  in  writing,  which  is  to  do  my  duty  to 
you,  and  every  member  of  your  family.  Nearly  ever  since 
you  left  home,  Lord  Heronmere  has  been  here,  on  and  off  ; 
and  though  far  be  it  from  me  to  say  he's  had  any  encour- 
agement from  Miss  Power,  no  one  can  help  seeing  what  his 
lordship' sfeefings  is.  Having  been  very  freely  remarked 
upon  in  the  servants'  hall,  I  think  it  only  my  duty  to  ap- 
prize you,  Sir  Guy ;  and  I  think — pardon  the  liberty  I 
take  in  saying  so,  nothing  would  put  a  stop  to  the  talk  like 
your  coming  home  if  so  be  as  you  see  fit.  I  must  add,  for 
the  furthest  from  my  thoughts  is  to  sow  dissension,  as  Miss 
Power's  conduct  to  his  lordship  was  such  that  he  might 
have  been  her  brother.  Her  ladyship  having  for  the  most 
part  been  confined  to  her  room  the  last  month,  his  lord- 
ship and  the  young  lady  have  been  thrown  very  much 
upon  each  other,  and  her  ladyship  has  not  had  the  opportU' 
nity  of  seeing  what  was  going  on.  I  beg  you  humbly  to 
believe,  Sir  Guy,  nothing  but  the  strongest  sense  of  duty 
would  have  ever  put  such  a  liberty  into  the  head  of 

"Your  obedient,  humble  servant, 

"JOHN  WALKINSHAW." 


TIME    TO   INTERFERE. 


439 


Which  letter  being  dispatched,  the  poor  butler  alternates 
between  a  nervous  fear  of  having  exceeded  his  duty,  and 
self-congratulation  at  having  done  it. 

It  so  happens  that  when  the  letter  arrives  at  Guy's  cot- 
tage in  Norway,  he  has  left,  and  is  on  his  way  home  by  a 
circuitous  route,  and  the  letter  is  sent  back  again  to 
England,  to  his  club  in  London.  He  has  had  ample  time 
for  reflection  during  the  long  days  in  Norway,  and  he  is 
coming  home  very  full  of  kindness  and  tenderness  for 
Dolores,  and  very  much  resolved  to  do  his  utmost  to  make 
her  happy  for  the  future.  He  is  not  by  any  means  satis- 
fied in  his  own  mind  that  he  has  behaved  quite  kindly  to 
her,  and  is  determined  that  she  shall  not  have  the  very 
slightest  cause  for  complaint  on  his  return.  Only  one 
thing  troubles  him,  and  that  is,  that  he  cannot  by  any 
possibility  avoid  Milly's  being  at  the  Court  with  Adrian 
for  the  shooting-season.  Adrian,  from  habit,  seems  to  have 
as  much  a  right  to  be  there  as  Guy  himself,  and  to  propose 
separating  him  from  Milly  again,  unless  he  is  prepared  to 
tell  the  truth  all  round,  would  be  impossible.  He  has  a 
kind  of  vague  hope  that  her  intuitive  tact  will  lead  her  to 
make  an  excuse  for  not  accompanying  her  husband  on 
this  occasion;  but  there  is  one  thing  stronger  in  Milly 
than  tact,  or  anything  else,  and  that  is  her  love  for 
Adrian. 

When  he  returned  to  her,  after  six  weeks'  absence,  gay, 
good-humored,  handsomer  than  ever,  the  remembrance  of 
all  the  bitter  anger  and  anxiety  she  has  felt  during  his  ab- 
sence melts  like  snow  before  the  sun.  Separate  herself 
voluntarily  from  him  again  ! — not  for  the  sake  of  any  man 
or  woman  living ! 

Guy's  intention  is  to  be  at  Wentworth  on  the  3oth  of 
August,  and  to  spend  a  day  first  in  London,  but  he  is  re- 
solved neither  to  go  to  his  brother's  house,  nor  to  travel 


440  DOLORES. 

by  the  same  train  with  them  to  Wentworth.  Indeed,  his 
idea  is  to  arrive  the  day  before  them,  and  to  have  Dolores 
all  to  himself,  and  if  she  has  still  any  anger  against  him, 
to  conquer  it  with  tenderness  and  affection.  This  will  be 
a  great  deal  easier  when  he  is  able  to  assure  her  that  he 
has  not  even  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  Milly  since  he  left 
England. 

L'homme propose.  On  his  arrival  in  London,  the  after- 
noon of  the  29th,  he  goes  to  his  club  for  letters,  and  there 
finds  not  only  Walkinshaw's  letter,  but  also  an  ill-spelt 
anonymous  one,  evidently  from  an  under-servant  at  the 
Court,  containing  very  much  fuller  particulars  than  the 
butler  had  thought  fit  to  give.  Guy,  with  great  propriety, 
tears  the  letter  into  fifty  pieces  and  scatters  them  to  the 
wind,  but  he  doesn't  feel  quite  the  same  as  before  he 
read  it. 

Now,  suppose  a  man  has  proposed  to  a  girl  from  a  sense 
of  honor,  and  because  he  believes  she  cannot  live  without 
him,  and  suppose,  further,  he  has  felt  considerably  bur* 
dened  by  the  responsibility  he  has  taken,  would  you  not 
think  it  would  be  a  great  relief  to  him  to  find  suddenly 
that  some  one  else  is  not  only  willing,  but  madly  eager,  to 
shift  the  responsibility  from  his  shoulders,  and  that  the  fair 
burden  does  not  seem  to  show  any  particular  disinclina- 
tion to  be  so  shifted — would  you  not  think,  I  say,  that  the 
man  to  whom  this  piece  of  good  fortune  occurred  would 
be  highly  delighted,  and  that  his  delight  would  appear 
very  strongly  depicted  on  his  countenance  ?  Look  at  Guy, 
then  !  His  face  is  as  white  as  the  bronze  of  sun  and  sea 
will  allow,  his  teeth  are  set  very  hard,  and  there  is  a  look 
of  such  anger  in  his  face  as  very  few  people  have  ever  seen 
there.  Well,  there  is  a  stronger  passion  even  than  love, 
and  that  is  pride.  It  is  not  very  pleasant,  I  suppose,  to 
hear  that  your  affianced  wife,  whom  all  your  friends  know 


TIME    TO   INTERFERE.  44! 

to  be  devotedly  attached  to  you,  is  receiving  the  very  ar- 
dent and  demonstrative  love-making  of  your  cousin,  with 
perfect  complacency,  under  your  very  roof,  and  openly 
and  undisguisedly,  in  the  face  of  your  servants ;  and  that, 
from  the  butler  to  the  lowest  kitchen-wench  and  helper  in 
the  stables,  every  one  sees,  knows,  and  talks  over  the  com- 
parative chances  of  you  and  your  rival.  Well,  I  suppose 
such  a  thing  would  not  be  altogether  pleasant,  even  if  one 
knew  one  had  oneself  to  thank  for  it  in  a  great  measure. 
Guy  might  reflect  that  she  had  told  him  positively  that 
she  will  never  marry  him,  and  that  it  is  only  by  his  most 
earnest  entreaties  that  she  has  consented  to  remain  at  the 
Court  during  his  absence,  and  to  refrain  from  making  her 
intentions  known ;  and  that,  therefore,  if  another  man 
offers  her  his  hand  and  fortune,  she  is  perfectly  at  liberty 
to  accept  it  without  committing  a  dishonorable  or  immod- 
est action.  But  when  we  are  very  angry  we  rarely  see 
more  than  one  side  of  the  case,  and  that  is  very  naturally 
our  own  ;  therefore  Guy  decides  furiously  that  Dolores's 
behavior  is  only  a  shade  less  culpable  than  his  cousin's, 
whom  he  will  on  the  morrow,  D.  V.,  horsewhip,  and  kick 
out  of  the  house. 

For. a  whole  hour  a  host  of  angry  projects  rush  through 
his  brain ;  and  then,  as  it  begins  to  get  very  bewildered 
and  uncertain,  he  bethinks  him  that  he  will  take  his  rage 
and  his  wrongs  to  Milly. 

Now,  Milly,  as  we  know,  is  not  particularly  predisposed 
in  favor  of  Dolores,  but  she  has  a  strong  sense  of  justice ; 
and  when  Guy  has  confided  to  her  all  the  circumstances, 
although  her  sympathy  is  entirely  with  him,  she  thinks, 
too,  there  is  some  allowance  to  be  made  for  the  girl. 
What  astonishes  her  is  that  Dolores,  after  being  so  devoted 
to  Guy,  can  be  capable  of  caring  for  any  one  else — in  her 
heart  she  does  not  believe  it. 
T* 


442 


DOLORES. 


"For  heaven's  sake,  Milly,  advise  me  what  to  do!" 
cries  Guy,  stopping  short  in  his  walk  up  and  down  the 
room,  and  looking  like  a  caged  lion.  "  What  on  earth 
can  my  mother  have  been  thinking  of  to  allow  it?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  think,  Guy:  you  know,  servants 
are  so  fond  of  talking  and  making  mountains  out  of 
molehills — and  Walkinshaw,  though  a  dear,  good  old 
man,  is  a  little  bit  fussy  and  important.  I  think  it  very 
probable  that  your  cousin  may  have  fallen  in  love  with 
Dolores,  and  very  likely  she  may  have  found  it  dull  with- 
out you,  and  been  glad  to  have  him  there;  but  I  don't  see 
that  it  at  all  follows  that  she  thinks  anything  of  him.  Why, 
Guy,  if  it  had  been  mutual,  don't  you  think  your  mother 
must  have  seen  it,  and  of  course  would  not  have  permitted 
it  for  an  instant  ?  I  had  a  letter  from  her  only  this  morn- 
ing, saying  Lord  Heronmere  was  going  to  stay  for  the 
shooting,  and  how  much  good  he  had  done  them  all  by 
his  fun  and  liveliness"  (Guy  grinds  his  teeth);  "and  then 
old  Mrs.  Conway  has  been  there  for  the  last  month." 

"  The  most  stupid  old  woman  in  creation,  who  never 
sees  the  nearest  thing  to  her  nose,"  interrupts  Guy. 

After  a  great  deal  of  talk  and  persuasion,  Milly  succeeds 
in  getting  Guy  into  a  more  reasonable  frame  of  mind,  and 
he  consents  to  wait  until  he  gets  to  Wentworth  and  is  able 
to  form  his  own  opinion.  So  everything  happens  as  Guy 
has  not  intended ;  he  dines  with  Milly,  and  the  next  day 
they  all  go  down  to  Wentworth  together. 

Heronmere  and  Dolores  are  watching  together  from 
one  of  the  windows  in  the  picture-gallery ;  both  are  in- 
tensely nervous  and  constrained — Heronmere  in  an 
agony  as  to  the  effect  Guy's  return  will  produce  upon  his 
idol,  and  Dolores  herself  doubtful  and  perplexed.  Pre- 
sently the  phaeton  comes  in  sight  among  the  trees,  and  a 
moment  later  they  recognize  Guy  and  his  sister-in-law. 


GUY  RETURNS. 


443 


If  Dolores  has  lost  her  love  for  Guy,  he  has  not  lost  the 
power  of  wounding  her,  and  when  she  sees  him  laughing 
and  talking  with  Milly,  as  they  draw  near  the  house,  a 
hot  thrill  of  anger  rushes  through  her  heart. 

"I  suppose  you  are  going  down  to  meet  him?"  says 
Heronmere,  nervously,  looking  very  white  and  sick. 

For  answer  she  turns  away,  flies  to  her  own  room,  and 
locks  herself  in.  Heronmere,  not  feeling  particularly 
anxious  to  meet  his  cousin,  does  the  same. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

GUY   RETURNS. 

WHEN  the  travelers  arrive,  there  is  no  one  to  greet 
them  bu^  Lady  Wentworth,  and  she  is  so  delighted  at 
seeing  Adrian  again  that  she  fails  to  perceive  Dolores's 
absence.  Guy  is  on  thorns.  He  feels  he  must  speak  to 
his  mother  on  the  subject  that  fills  him  with  so  much 
trouble ;  he  cannot  before  an  audience,  and  he  does  not 
like  doing  anything  so  pointed  as  to  ask  immediately  for 
a  private  interview.  At  any  moment  Dolores  may  come 
in,  though  her  absence  looks  extremely  suspicious,  and 
he  will  not  know  how  to  meet  her. 

Presently  Milly  goes  to  take  off  her  hat,  but  Adrian 
remains.  Guy  feels  the  plunge  must  be  taken. 

"  Adrian,"  he  asks  nervously,  "  would  you  mind  leaving 
me  alone  with  our  mother  for  a  few  minutes? — I  have 
something  very  particular  to  say  to  her." 

Lady  Wentworth  looks  a  little  surprised,  and  Adrian 
answers,  lazily, — 


444  DOLORES. 

"  I  suppose  I  must,  if  you  insist.  But,  my  dear  fellow, 
why  are  you  not  off  looking  for  Dolores,  whom  you  must 
be  so  anxious  to  see?" 

However,  he  goes ;  and  the  instant  the  door  has  closed 
behind  him,  Guy  says,  sternly, — 

"  Mother,  what  is  this  I  hear  about  Dolores  and 
Heronmere?" 

Lady  Wentworth  looks  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  my  dear.  What  have  you 
heard?" 

"That  he  has  been  here  nearly  ever  since  I  left,  making 
the  most  impassioned  love  to  her  under  your  very  eyes." 

"Absurd!"  answers  his  mother.  "Who  has  presumed 
to  tell  you  such  a  thing?  As  if  Dolores  would  for  one 
instant  give  a  thought  to  a  boy  like  Regy,  when  she  is 
not  only  engaged  to  marry  you,  but  is  entirely  devoted 
to  you!" 

"May  have  been"  (bitterly);  "but  women  soon 
change.  And  I  am  assured,  on  the  authority  of  a  mem- 
ber of  the  household  whom  I  can  trust,  that  Heronmere 
is  madly  in  love  with  her,  and  that  they  have  been 
together,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  for  nearly  two 
months." 

"I  do  not  know  who  your  authority  may  be,"  replies 
Lady  Wentworth,  with  some  warmth,  "but  it  must  be 
some  very  foolish  and  officious  person.  You  surely  give 
me  credit  for  being  able  to  see  what  is  going  on  before 
me ;  and  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  there  is 
nothing  but  friendship  between  the  two.  They  seem  to 
take  very  great  pleasure  in  each  other's  society,  which  is 
no  more  than  natural  they  should  do,  both  being  very 
lively,  and  near  the  same  age.  But,  my  dear  Guy" 
(smiling),  "I  do  not  think  you  need  have  any  fear  of 
poor  Regy  as  a  rival." 


GUY  RETURNS. 


445 


His  mother's  confidence  a  little  re-assures  Guy,  but  he 
cannot  get  over  the  letters,  chiefly  the  one  of  which  he 
desires  not  to  think  at  all.  And  why  are  Dolores  and 
Heron  mere  both  absent  ? 

He  is  half  inclined  to  see  Walkinshaw;  but  at  this 
moment  the  dressing-bell  rings,  and  he  resolves  to  wait  a 
few  hours  and  judge  for  himself. 

When  he  comes  down,  the  whole  party  are  assembled. 
Dolores  is  talking  with  some  animation  to  Adrian,  Heron- 
mere  is  bending  over  Milly,  and  the  two  elderly  ladies 
are  chatting  together. 

Dolores  gives  him  her  hand  in  an  unconcerned  manner 
— not  in  the  least  as  though  she  were  glad  to  see  him; 
and  he  turns,  rather  nettled,  to  his  cousin,  who  greets 
him  not  very  cordially,  but  still  in  a  way  not  calculated 
to  draw  any  remark.  At  dinner  he  has  old  Mrs.  Conway 
on  his  right,  and  Dolores  on  his  left;  but  she  talks 
incessantly  to  Adrian,  who  is  on  her  right;  although, 
whenever  Guy  addresses  her,  she  answers  him  with  per- 
fect politeness. 

During  the  first  part  of  dinner,  Heronmere  has  been 
excessively  nervous  and  anxious  how  Dolores  will  comport 
herself  with  Guy ;  but  when  he  observes  that  she  scarcely 
speaks  to  him,  he  waxes  confident,  and  is  able  to  talk 
to  Milly  with  great  liveliness  and  enthusiasm.  When 
Dolores  sees  him  so  engrossed  with  Milly,  a  pang  of 
jealousy  seizes  her :  is  this  woman  always  to  be  in  her 
way  ?  she  thinks,  bitterly. 

Her  vexed  look  at  Heronmere  is  not  lost  on  Guy. 
How  thankful  he  is  when  this  miserable  dinner  is  over  ! 
He  feels  thoroughly  uncomfortable  and  out  of  sorts.  His 
pride  is  deeply  wounded ;  he  is  full  of  anger,  to  which, 
in  his  own  house,  it  is  difficult  to  give  vent ;  and  he  has 
the  pleasant  consciousness  that  every  servant  in  the  house 

38 


446  DOLORES. 

knows  the  position  of  affairs,  and  that  the  coolness  of 
Dolores's  reception  of  him  will  be  freely  commented 
upon.  He  feels  it  hardly  possible  to  speak  civilly  to  his 
cousin,  so,  almost  as  soon  as  the  ladies  have  gone,  he 
makes  an  excuse,  and  adjourns  to  his  room,  leaving 
Adrian  and  Heronmere  upon  the  best  of  terms. 

He  sends  for  Walkinshaw,  and  questions  him  ;  but  that 
worthy,  fearful  of  having  already  said  too  much,  only 
confines  himself  to  remarking  that  he  does  not  doubt  all 
will  be  well  now  Sir  Guy  has  returned,  and,  though  he 
thinks  his  lordship  was  very  much  taken  with  Miss  Power, 
he  had  never  (emphatically)  seen  her  behave  in  any  other 
way  than  she  might  have  done  to  a  brother.  To  be  sure, 
they  did  race  about  in  the  gardens  together,  and  ride, 
and  row  on  the  lake;  and  he  had  seen  his  lordship  with 
his  arm  round  Miss  Power's  waist,  but  to  be  sure  that  was 
only  when  he  was  teaching  her  to  dance ;  and  they  did 
laugh  and  go  on  like  two  mad  things  sometimes;  but, 
Lor' !  that  was  only  what  all  young  creatures  full  of  health 
and  spirits  would  do.  All  of  which  we  may  be  sure  was 
eminently  satisfactory  to  Guy — all  the  more  that  there 
was  nothing  definite  enough  to  give  him  an  excuse  for  an 
open  rupture  with  his  cousin.  He  refrains  from  any 
allusion  to  the  anonymous  letter.  When  he  returns  to 
the  drawing-room,  Adrian  is  still  talking  to  Dolores,  and 
Heronmere  to  Milly.  He  makes  at  once  for  Dolores. 

"I  suppose  I  must  give  place,"  says  Adrian,  with  a 
smile ;  but  she  answers,  without  even  looking  at  Guy, — 

"  Why  should  you?  We  are  very  well  as  we  are ;  he 
can  go  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Charteris." 

Stung  to  the  quick,  Guy  turns  away  and  walks  to  his 
mother. 

"My  dear,"  she  whispers,  not  quite  understanding 
how  things  are  going,  "I  think  you  are  wrong  in  being 


GUY  RETURNS. 


447 


<o  cool  to  Dolores.  You  have  hurt  her  feelings  quite 
enough  already — pray  go  and  sit  by  her,  and  be  kind  to 
her." 

"  She  does  not  seem  at  all  anxious  for  my  society,"  he 
answers,  proudly. 

"  That  is  only  a  little  pique — perhaps  you  were  cold  to 
her  at  dinner,  and  she  is  resenting  it.  Come,  now  you 
are  at  home  again,  it  is  time  all  misunderstandings  were 
at  an  end." 

He  sighs,  and  turns  away  to  old  Mrs.  Conway.  Pres- 
ently Lady  Wentworth  calls  her  youngest  son  to  her,  in 
the  hope  that  Guy  will  take  the  opportunity  to  go  to  Do- 
lores ;  but  before  he  has  time,  even  if  he  had  the  inclina- 
tion, Lord  Heronmere  leaves  Milly's  side,  and  takes  the 
low  chair  that  Adrian  has  vacated.  He  has  not  spoken  to 
his  adored  one  for  more  than  three  hours,  and,  expedient 
or  not,  he  cannot  remain  away  from  her  any  longer.  So 
Guy,  full  of  wrath,  goes  to  Milly  for  consolation ;  and, 
seeing  him  again  with  her,  Dolores  flirts  in  the  most  open 
manner  with  her  young  lover,  whom  she  raises  to  a 
seventh  heaven. 

"Dolores,  darling,"  he  whispers,  eagerly,  "now  that 
you  have  seen  him,  do  you  feel  as  fond  of  him  as  ever,  or 
have  I  still  a  chance  ?' ' 

"  I  am  not  fond  of  him  at  all,"  she  answers,  with  a 
flash  of  her  blue  eyes ;  and  it  is  true,  for,  when  she  sees 
him  with  Milly,  she  hates  them  both  from  the  bottom  of 
her  heart. 

Heronmere  is  really  the  only  person  at  his  ease ;  every 
one  else  cannot  help  feeling  there  is  something  wrong. 
Even  old  Mrs.  Conway  is  conscious  of  some  want  of  har- 
mony in  the  meeting.  Lady  Wentworth  is  vexed  with 
her  nephew,  and  Milly,  who  sees  pretty  much  how  matters 
are  going,  feels  extremely  concerned  and  doubtful  how 


448  DOLORES. 

it  will  all  end.  All  her  energies  are  devoted  to  soothing 
Guy,  who  is  furious,  and  quite  inclined  to  turn  his  cousin 
out  of  the  house. 

"  I  really  think,"  Milly  says  to  her  husband  that  night, 
"you  had  better  advise  your  cousin  to  leave.  I  am  quite 
sure  Guy  will  not  bear  it  much  longer." 

"He  was  a  fool  to  go  away  and  leave  her,"  answers 
Adrian.  "  What  could  he  expect  ?" 

"  I  should  think,"  says  Milly,  warmly,  "  he  might  have 
expected  her  to  remain  true  to  him  for  two  months,  after 
all  he  has  sacrificed  for  her." 

"Never  expect  anything  of  a  woman,"  yawns  Adrian. 
"If  you  want  to  keep  them  to  yourself,  don't  go  away 
from  them." 

"  Indeed  !"  (with  a  touch  of  sarcasm.)  "  I  should  not 
have  thought  that  those  were  your  ideas." 

"My  dear  Milly"  (languidly),  "I  never  asked  any 
questions  when  I  came  home,  did  I  ?  If  you  had  fallen 
in  love  with  some  one  during  my  absence,  I  shouldn't 
have  been  surprised ;  it's  what  all  you  sweet  creatures  are 
given  to  doing." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  Adrian"  (caressingly),  "but  let 
us  think  what  is  to  be  done.  If  Dolores  behaves  in  the 
foolish  manner  she  did  to-night,  and  your  cousin  cannot 
conceal  his  feelings  a  little  better,  it  must  come  to  a  rup- 
ture to-morrow." 

"  Nonsense,  Milly !  women  are  always  expecting  trage- 
dies. I  sha'n't  advise  the  boy  to  go ;  he  is  capital  com- 
pany, and  makes  me  laugh — much  better  company  than 
Guy,  particularly  now  he's  in  such  a  sweet  temper." 

"You  would  not  like  them  to  have  a  violent  quarrel?" 

"I  shouldn't  mind — it  would  be  a  little  excitement. 
If  that  little  girl  doesn't  mind,  she'll  have  them  both 
slipping  through  her  fingers." 


GUY  RETURNS. 


449 


"  I  think  she  would  have  no  one  but  herself  to  blame," 
says  Milly,  with  some  warmth. 

"Oh,  you  women  are  always  so  vindictive  to  each 
other,"  retorts  Adrian.  "She  is  the  prettiest  creature 
I've  seen  for  many  a  day,  and  would  make  the  loveliest 
little  viscountess." 

As  Milly  makes  no  rejoinder,  the  conversation  ends. 

Lord  Heronmere  lies  awake  nearly  all  night,  making 
plans  for  the  future.  He  does  not  see  any  advantage  to 
be  derived  from  staying  on  at  Wentworth,  nor  does  he 
think,  from  Guy's  temper,  that  his  visit  would  be  likely 
to  be  a  pleasant  one.  If  he  can  only  persuade  Dolores 
to  run  away  with  him  the  next  day  ! — but  there  are  various 
obstacles.  Hang  it !  if  they  could  only  get  married 
right  off  it  would  be  delightful ;  but  he  has  made  inquiries 
and  finds  it  can't  be  done  under  three  days.  In  that  time 
Guy  could  track  and  follow  them,  hinder  the  marriage, 
perhaps  dissuade  Dolores  from  it  altogether,  acquaint  his 
mother,  and  there  would  be  the  deuce  to  pay. 

"But,"  he  reflects,  "  if  I  were  to  go  up  to  town  to- 
morrow, or  rather  to-day,  and  I  could  only  get  Dolores 
to  consent  to  follow  on  Friday,  I  could  make  all  the  ar- 
rangements, and  we  could  be  married  early  on  Saturday, 
and  go  abroad.  Let  me  see,  I  have  to  get  foreign  leave, 
get  the  license,  give  notice  at  the  church,  and  find  some 
one  to  give  the  bride  away.  Old  Baxter  will  do  it  like  a 
shot,  if  he's  in  town ;  or,  if  not,  I  dare  say  I  can  find 
somebody  else.  But  suppose  she  won't  consent,  or  sup- 
pose she  does,  and  then  does  not  come  after  all ;  I  hate  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  here  with  him.  She  may  get  fond 
of  him  again."  And  this  thought  causes  the  poor  young 
fellow  to  toss  and  turn  on  his  pillow,  and  to  go  through 
agonies  of  doubt  and  apprehension.  Still,  it  is  the  only 
thing  he  sees  for  it.  and  if  it  should  succeed,  why,  then 

2D  38* 


450 


DOLORES. 


no  words  can  paint  the  rapture  that  will  be  his.  So  at 
last  he  goes  to  sleep,  determined,  at  all  hazards,  to  make 
the  proposition  to  Dolores. 

Guy  has  fully  resolved  to  come  to  an  explanation  with 
his  future  wife  (as  he  still  believes  her  to  be),  and  intends 
that  it  shall  take  place  after  breakfast.  She  comes  down 
when  most  of  the  party  are  assembled,  slips  into  the  far- 
thest seat  from  him  which  happens  to  be  vacant,  and 
when  Lady  Wentworth  rises  from  the  table,  goes  out  after 
her.  Guy  remains  behind  after  every  one  else  is  gone, 
feeling  sorely  angered  and  perplexed ;  but  he  is  resolved 
that  matters  shall  be  decided  one  way  or  another,  and, 
with  this  intention,  goes  towards  the  door  to  seek  her. 
On  his  passage  he  treads  on  something  hard,  and,  stoop- 
ing to  pick  it  up,  discovers  a  miniature  of  his  cousin,  set 
round  with  large  diamonds.  He  holds  it  in  his  hand 
for  a  moment  in  some  scorn. 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  says,  contemptuously,  "he 
must  be  very  proud  of  his  pretty  face  to  think  it  worth 
such  a  setting!" 

At  this  moment  Dolores  comes  in  with  a  perturbed 
face.  When  she  sees  Guy  with  the  miniature  in  his  hand, 
she  stops  short,  coloring  deeply.  A  light  breaks  upon 
him. 

"Perhaps  this  is  yours!"  he  says,  in  a  voice  in  which 
anger  and  contempt  are  strongly  blended. 

His  tone  makes  the  girl's  eyes  blaze  in  response,  and 
she  answers  in  a  tone  so  proud  that  Guy  is  smitten  with 
surprise. 

"It  is  mine,  and  I  shall  thank  you  to  restore  it  to 
me." 

"Stop  a  moment,"  he  says,  repressing  his  passion. 
"  May  I  ask  by  what  right  you  receive  such  valuable  pres- 
ents from  Lord  Heronmere  ?' ' 


GUY  RETURNS. 


45  I 


The  two  who  have  been  lovers  stand  before  each  other, 
but  there  is  more  of  wrath  and  defiance  in  both  their  faces 
now  than  of  the  tender  passion. 

"I  decline  to  answer  you,"  she  returns.  "I  am  not 
accountable  to  you  for  any  of  my  actions.  Be  so  good  as 
to  return  me  Lord  Heronmere's  picture,  and  let  me  go." 

"If  you  touch  this  thing  again"  (passionately),  "you 
will  never  be  wife  of  mine." 

"  Nor  shall  I  if  I  do  not,"  she  retorts,  scornfully.  "  I 
thought,  Sir  Guy"  (drawing  herself  up),  "that  you  fully 
understood  before  you  left  England  that  I  declined  to 
marry  you,  and  that  I  only  remained  in  your  house  with 
Lady  Wentworth  by  your  express  entreaty." 

For  the  first  time  Guy  realizes  that  the  girl  is  in  earnest, 
and  that  she  does  not  mean  to  marry  him.  He  has  a 
bitter  feeling  that  he  has  been  made  a  fool  of,  and  he 
would  not  be  human  if  the  thought  did  not  come  across 
him  that  this  girl,  for  whom  he  had  sacrificed  so  much, 
had  made  him  a  strange  return.  He  is  noble  enough, 
however,  to  refrain  from  a  word  of  reproach,  or  one  taunt 
on  the  subject  of  his  cousin.  Making  her  a  ceremonious 
bow,  he  returns  the  miniature  to  her  hand,  saying, — 

"  Under  these  circumstances,  I  have  no  further  remark 
to  make." 

And  Dolores,  taking  the  picture  from  him,  turns  away 
to  the  garden,  her  heart  full  of  bitterness  towards  the 
man  whom  once  she  loved  so  dearly.  Heronmere  very 
soon  joins  her.  He  could  not  possibly  have  chosen  a 
happier  moment  to  broach  his  schemes,  for  she  feels  that, 
after  what  has  happened,  Wentworth  can  no  longer  be  a 
home  for  her.  As  they  sit  together  under  the  shade  of 
the  big  trees,  Heronmere  unfolds  all  his  plans.  On  Fri- 
day afternoon  she  is  to  make  an  excuse  to  go  shopping 
in  Allington,  is  to  take  Marcelline  with  her,  to  drive  to 


452 


DOLORES. 


the  station,  send  word  by  the  porter  to  the  coachman, 
just  as  the  express  is  starting,  that  she  has  gone  up  to 
town  on  business.  He  will  meet  them  in  London,  where 
he  will  have  made  every  preparation  for  their  reception. 
"And  the  next  day,"  he  winds  up,  in  uncontrollable  joy, 
"  I  shall  be  the  happiest  fellow  in  the  three  kingdoms." 

Dolores  is  at  first  bewildered  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
step,  but  Heronmere  does  not  desist  from  persuading  and 
arguing  the  matter  until  she  has  consented.  Then  he 
says  suddenly,  looking  at  her  as  if  he  would  read  her  very 
heart, — 

"  Dolores,  swear  to  me  that,  after  you  have  given  me 
your  promise,  you  will  not  throw  me  over." 

"You  silly  boy,  as  if  I  should,"  she  answers. 

"If  you  do"  (solemnly),  "  you'll  never  see  me  alive  in 
this  world  again.  Darling,  tell  me  once  more,  are  you 
sure  you  do  not  love  him  any  longer?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  with  a  flash  of  her  blue  eyes,  and  an  un- 
mistakable emphasis. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  darling !  And  now  I  must  go  and 
let  them  all  know  I  am  going." 

"What  will  you  say?" 

"I  don't  know,  unless  I  pick  a  quarrel  with  Guy  first 
I  don't  think  he's  in  a  humor  to  balk  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  don't  do  that — anything  else." 

"  I'll  see — don't  be  alarmed — it  shall  not  come  to  any- 
thing serious,  I  promise  you.  I  am  so  happy !  I  feel  as 
if  I  loved  everybody  all  round ! 

As  he  is  on  his  way  to  the  house,  he  meets  Guy,  who 
stops  him. 

"  I  should  be  glad  of  a  few  moments'  talk  with  you," 
he  says,  coldly. 

"Whenever  you  like,"  returns  Heronmere,  following 
him  into  his  room. 


GUY  RETURNS. 


453 


Guy  is  naturally  hot-tempered,  and  on  such  occasions 
is  not  one  to  use  much  circumlocution.  He  goes  straight 
at  his  subject. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  think  it  a  particularly 
gentlemanlike  thing  to  do,"  he  says,  sternly,  "to  sneak 
into  a  man's  house  when  he  is  absent,  with  the  settled 
purpose  of  seducing  away  the  affections  of  his  promised 
wife." 

Heronmere  is  hot-blooded  too,  but  he  hasn't  the  heart 
to  get  into  a  rage  to-day. 

"  '  Sneak'  is  not  a  nice  word  between  gentlemen  and 
cousins,"  he  answers,  coolly.  "I  fancied  myself  as  wel- 
come, and  as  much  at  home  in  your  house,  as  you  are  in 
mine  ;  and  if  you  ask  your  mother,  she  will  tell  you  that 
I  came  here  by  her  special  invitation.  With  regard  to 
Miss  Power's  affections,  I  should  think  you  would  be  the 
best  judge  whether  there  would  be  much  of  them  to  se- 
duce, after  the  way  in  which  you  have  neglected  her." 

"Upon  my  soul!"  says  Guy,  furiously,  "this  is  too 
much  !  Am  I  to  be  taken  to  task  by  a  boy  for  my  be- 
havior? However,  I  don't  choose  to  bandy  words;  you 
will  make  it  convenient  to  leave  Wentworth  to-day ;  and 
if  I  am  forced  to  treat  any  one  in  my  house  in  a  manner 
which  is  utterly  abhorrent  to  all  my  ideas,  you  will  please 
to  understand  that  you  have  brought  it  entirely  upon 
yourself." 

Heronmere  answers  with  a  supercilious  smile. 

"  I  shall  only  so  far  trespass  on  your  hospitality  as  to 
borrow  a  dog-cart  to  take  me  to  the  station.  After  that, 
please  God  !"  (the  hot  blood  rushing  to  his  face)  "  it  will 
be  many  a  long  day  before  I  darken  the  doors  of  Went- 
worth again." 

And  he  flings  out  and  goes  into  the  morning-room, 
where  Lady  Wentworth  is  sitting  with  Adrian  and  Milly. 


454  DOLORES. 

"I've  come  to  say  good-by,"  he  says,  in  a  light  tone, 
but  with  a  flush  on  his  face.  "I'm  kicked  out." 

Milly  looks  at  Adrian.  Lady  Wentworth's  face  is  a 
picture  of  consternation. 

"  What,  my  dear?"  she  cries. 

"Kicked  out.  But  that's  only  right  of  course,  if  I 
sneaked  in  when  Guy's  back  was  turned,  as  I'm  accused 
of  doing.  You  might  as  well  let  him  know,  when  I'm 
gone,  though,  Aunt  Margaret,  that  you  did  invite  me." 

"  Of  course  I  invited  you  !  What  is  Guy  thinking  of? 
I  must  go  to  him  at  once." 

"No  use,  auntie;  don't  trouble  your  head  about  it. 
I've  had  a  delightful  visit,  and  I  suppose  all  pleasant 
things  must  come  to  an  end." 

"But,  Regy,  the  shooting  begins  to-morrow." 

"Can't  be  helped  ;  and  my  own's  quite  as  good,  you 
know,  only  I  preferred  the  company  here.  "I  think" 
(blushing  a  little)  "I  shall  go  abroad;  and  in  October, 
Adrian,  if  I  get  any  more  leave,  you  must  come  and  help 
shoot  the  pheasants.  I  expect  tremendous  bags  this  year. 
And,  Mrs.  Charteris,  you'll  come  too,  won't  you?" 

Milly  smiles  assent. 

After  a  hearty  leave-taking,  he  goes  out  and  finds 
Dolores. 

"  It's  all  happened  just  as  I  could  have  wished.  Good- 
by,  my  own  sweet  darling.  How  I  shall  count  the  hours 
until  Friday  !  You  swear  not  to  fail  me?"  And  when 
she  has  sworn,  he  departs  radiant. 


THE    THOROUGHBRED. 


455 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

THE  THOROUGHBRED. 

AFTER  Heronmere's  departure,  the  day  does  not  go 
off  satisfactorily  to  any  one.  Guy  mounts  his  horse,  and 
rides  no  one  knows  where ;  Lady  Wentworth  and  Milly 
hold  prolonged  discussions  upon  the  turn  matters  have 
taken  ;  Dolores  shuts  herself  up  in  her  room ;  and  Adrian 
is  considerably  bored.  Lady  Wentworth  cannot  at  all 
make  up  her  mind  whether  she  ought  to  interfere  between 
Guy  and  Dolores,  or  whether  it  will  be  better  to  let  them 
come  round  by  themselves — for  that  they  will  she  never 
for  one  moment  doubts.  Milly  does  not  know  what  to 
advise,  but  thinks  that,  now  Lord  Heronmere  is  gone, 
there  is  a  better  chance  of  reconciliation  between  the  two. 

Meantime,  Guy  is  riding  mile  after  mile,  trying  to  get 
out  of  his  unpleasant  thoughts.  Angry  as  he  is  with  his 
cousin,  he  does  not  feel  that  he  was  justified  in  treating 
him  as  he  has  done  under  his  own  roof.  He  wonders, 
too,  what  are  his  intentions  to  Dolores — does  he  mean  to 
marry  her?  He  half  expects  to  find  her  gone  too  when 
he  returns ;  now  she  has  finally  decreed  that  she  will  not 
marry  him,  she  will  hardly  care  to  remain  any  longer 
beneath  his  roof — he  does  not  desire  that  she  should.  It 
is  a  wretched  business.  How  he  wishes  he  had  never  seen 
her  !  After  her  treatment  of  him,  he  has  no  more  tender 
feeling  for  her.  She  is  very  lovely,  he  thinks — lovelier 
than  ever ;  but  since  she  no  longer  cares  for  him,  the  great- 
est part  of  her  charm  is  gone. 


456  DOLORES. 

"  I  knew  she  would  get  disillusionize  one  day,"  he  says, 
bitterly,  "and  better  before  than  after." 

At  dinner  he  is  surprised  to  see  her  looking  radiant. 
She  is  beautifully  dressed,  and  has  a  shell-pink  color  in 
her  cheeks ;  her  manner  is  a  little  more  empresse  than 
usual,  and  an  outside  spectator  might  think  she  was  trying 
to  make  the  conquest  of  Adrian.  It  is  as  if  she  had  the 
fixed  intention  of  annoying  Guy  and  Milly ;  to  them  she 
scarcely  deigns  a  word,  but  to  Adrian  sue  is  full  of  the 
most  bewitching  little  airs,  and  he,  nothing  loth,  recipro- 
cates her  attentions  with  admiring  glances  and  the  most 
tender  devotion  of  manner.  It  is  Milly's  turn  to  be 
miserable,  and  she  is;  she  cannot  bear  to  see  Adrian 
making  love  to  another  woman ;  it  fills  her  with  excru- 
ciating pangs  of  jealousy.  Dolores  triumphs ;  a  wicked  fit 
has  come  over  her — a  desire  to  revenge  herself  on  Milly, 
who  she  remembers  has  caused  her  so  many  bitter  heart- 
aches. And  she  feels  a  kind  of  recklessness  as  to  what 
impression  she  will  leave  behind,  since  she  is  going  away 
from  it  all  in  a  day  or  two. 

As  for  Guy,  when  he  sees  how  wretched  Milly  is,  though 
she  tries  to  laugh  and  talk  to  him,  all  the  old  tenderness 
for  her  wells  up  into  his  heart ;  he  forgets  everything  but 
that  she  is  suffering.  The  whole  evening  he  does  his 
utmost  to  divert  her  attention  from  Adrian  and  Dolores, 
who  are  sitting  on  a  sofa,  apparently  too  much  engrossed 
with  each  other  to  be  aware  of  any  one  else's  presence. 
Adrian  is  perfectly  happy,  but  Dolores,  though  she  laughs 
and  talks  so  gayly,  is  not  at  her  ease.  She  does  not  love 
Guy  any  longer,  but  she  cannot  bear  to  see  him  sitting 
talking  to  Milly,  with  a  tender  expression  in  his  eyes. 
How  we  pervert  things  in  our  minds  !  She  believes  that 
it  is  Guy  who  is  devoting  himself  to  Milly,  and  that  in 
revenge  she  is  seeming  delighted  with  Adrian's  society ; 


Tllh    THOROUGHBRED 


457 


she  is  not  aware  that  she  herself  was  the  first  to  offend. 
Dolores  is  a  soft,  tender-hearted  little  thing,  but  for  these 
two  she  has  no  mercy,  only  feels  a  mad  desire  to  be  re- 
venged upon  them. 

When  Milly  comes  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
Guy  sees  that  her  eyes  look  preternaturally  large ;  she 
has  evidently  been  crying  bitterly.  Adrian  takes  not 
the  slightest  notice  of  her,  but  resumes  his  attentions  to 
Dolores.  Guy  is  so  angry  that  he  can  scarcely  command 
his  voice  to  speak  to  either  of  them.  Fortunately,  this  is 
the  ist  of  September;  and,  as  soon  as  breakfast  is  over, 
the  two  men  go  off  to  shoot,  and  do  not  come  back  until 
nearly  dinner-time.  The  evening  is  a  repetition  of  the 
preceding  one.  It  is  Dolores's  last  night  at  Wentworth ; 
but  Guy  does  not  know  this,  and  makes  up  his  mind  that 
this  state  of  things  shall  continue  no  longer.  Either  his 
mother  must  speak  to  Dolores,  or  he  will  do  so  himself; 
he  is  not  going  to  see  Milly  made  miserable  to  satisfy  the 
caprice  of  a  vain,  light-minded  girl, — for  by  so  harsh  a 
name  he  calls  her  to  himself. 

The  next  day  the  men  only  go  out  shooting  in  the 
morning,  and  return  to  lunch.  Dolores  is  not  present, 
and  Adrian  inquires  for  her  in  vain ;  she  has  a  headache, 
and  is  lying  down.  The  fact  is  that  this  is  the  day  of  her 
projected  flight,  and  she  is  in  such  a  state  of  nervous  ex- 
citement that  she  feels  it  utterly  impossible  to  meet  any 
member  of  the  family.  Lady  Wentworth  has  said  a  few 
kind  words  of  expostulation  to  her  this  morning  on  the 
thoughtlessness  of  her  conduct,  without  mentioning 
Adrian's  name,  and  the  girl  has  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears, 
and,  throwing  herself  into  the  elder  lady's  arms,  has  en- 
treated her  forgiveness  for  having  in  any  way  displeased 
her,  and  begged  of  her  always  to  think  kindly  of  her. 
For  Dolores  is  thinking  far  more  that  she  is  going  to  steal 
u  39 


458  DOLORES. 

ungratefully  and  clandestinely  away  from  the  house  of  the 
woman  who  has  been  so  kind  to  her,  and  feeling  more 
penitent  for  it,  than  for  having  exchanged  a  few  light 
words  and  glances  with  a  man  for  whom  she  cares  nothing. 
Lady  Wentworth,  who  has  become  exceedingly  fond  of  Do- 
lores, particularly  since  the  slight  illness  in  which  she  has 
been  such  a  kind  and  careful  little  nurse,  is  grieved  at 
the  girl's  tears,  and  accuses  herself  of  over-harshness,  and 
is  inclined  to  be  indignant  with  Guy  for  having  delegated 
to  her  such  an  unwelcome  task. 

Dolores  has  not  yet  told  Marcelline ;  she  feels  some 
trepidation  as  to  how  that  faithful  old  friend  will  receive 
the  news. 

"But  when  I  tell  her,"  she  says  to  herself,  "that  if  she 
does  not  agree,  all  my  prospects  are  destroyed,  and  there 
will  be  nothing  left  for  us  but  to  go  back  to  Rouen,  she 
will  consent — I  know  she  will.  And  we  must  take  nothing 
with  us,  lest  we  excite  suspicion." 

She  thinks  to  herself  with  pleasure  how  she  will  leave 
every  jewel,  every  gift  Guy  has  ever  given  her,  behind. 

Milly  is  of  a  very  forgiving  disposition — it  makes  her 
wretched  to  quarrel  with  any  one  she  loves.  So,  at  lunch, 
by  way  of  an  amende,  she  asks  Adrian  if  he  will  drive  her 
out.  Adrian,  like  many  good-tempered  people,  is  unfor- 
giving. He  does  not  forget  that  Milly  has  quarreled 
with  him,  and  said  some  bitter  things  to  him.  He  en- 
tirely ignores  the  fact  that  the  provocation  has  been  on 
his  side,  and  coldly  declines  to  accompany  her.  Once 
more  she  asks  him,  in  the  pleading,  caressing  voice  that 
men  have  been  wont  to  find  so  irresistible,  but  it  makes 
no  impression  on  him,  and  he  declines  again  with  unmis- 
takable decision.  Milly  tries  hard  to  choke  down  the 
tears  that  come  into  her  eyes,  and  Guy,  full  of  pain  for 
her  pain,  says,  eagerly, — 


THE    THOROUGHBRED. 


459 


"  Won't  you  come  with  me  instead,  Milly  ?  I  want  to 
try  one  of  my  young  thoroughbreds.  I'll  put  her  in  with 
a  steady  one,  and  I  dare  say  we  shall  have  some  fun. 
You  shall  drive,  if  you  like — you  have  the  best  hands  in 
the  world  on  a  horse." 

Milly  gives  him  a  grateful  look  and  assents. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  says  Lady  Wentworth,  nervously, 
"  pray  don't  run  any  risk.  You  have  not  driven  this  one 
yourself  before ;  and,  besides,  you  never  can  tell  what 
young  horses  are  going  to  do." 

"  Quite  safe,  I  assure  you,  mother.  I'm  going  to  have 
Brown  Bess  with  her,  and  she's  as  steady  as  old  Time, 
you  know." 

"  My  dear  mother,"  says  Adrian,  "  if  they  like  to  break 
their  necks,  let  them ;  for  my  own  part,  I  should  never 
attempt  to  balk  any  one  in  such  a  desire." 

Milly's  eyes  flash. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  not  mind  very  much." 

He  smiles,  but  makes  no  other  answer ;  and  with  a 
swelling  heart  she  turns  from  the  room. 

An  hour  later  the  phaeton  is  at  the  door,  and  Milly, 
who  has  recovered  her  spirits  at  the  prospect  of  her  drive, 
jumps  in.  Guy  gives  her  the  reins,  and,  after  a  few  little 
objections  to  starting,  the  chestnut  (a  perfect  picture), 
encouraged  by  Milly's  voice  and  hand,  makes  a  start,  and 
goes  off  in  splendid  style. 

"By  Jove!  what  a  beauty  she  is!"  ejaculates  Guy, 
watching  her  admiringly ;  "  doesn't  she  go  in  grand  style, 
Milly?  How  well  you  show  her  off!  She  didn't  look 
iike  the  same  animal  when  Parkins  had  the  reins." 

Milly's  face  is  flushed  with  pleasure;  she  loves  horses, 
and  she  loves  to  be  praised. 

"Does  she  make  your  arms  ache?"  he  asks,  presently. 

"  No,  she  pulls  a  little,  but  not  more  than  I  can  hold." 


460  DOLORES. 

It  is  a  lovely  September  afternoon,  and  they  drive 
through  the  Park  and  along  the  lanes,  past  the  hedgerows 
and  across  a  common ;  the  chestnut  has  settled  down 
wonderfully,  and  is  going,  Guy  declares,  "as  if  she  had 
been  at  it  all  her  life." 

The  words  are  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  when,  from  a 
stubble-field  close  by,  there  comes  the  shrill  whirr  and 
whistle  of  a  threshing-machine  just  beginning  work.  The 
chestnut  gives  one  great  affrighted  bound  and  starts  for- 
ward, carrying  Brown  Bess,  also  startled  out  of  her  com- 
posure, along  with  her. 

"They're  off!"  says  Guy.  "Better  let  me  have  the 
reins." 

"I  think  I  can  guide  them,"  answers  Milly,  under  her 
breath,  rather  pale,  but  not  losing  her  nerve. 

But  he  sees  in  a  moment  the  strain  is  too  great  on  her 
delicate  wrists,  and  takes  them  from  her. 

"I  think  we're  safe  enough,"  she  says,  in  a  low,  quiet 
voice;  "we've  got  a  long,  straight  road  before  us,  and 
when  we  turn  the  next  corner  there's  a  hill." 

"Yes.     I  needn't  tellyou  to  sit  still." 

"No"  (smiling). 

The  horses  fly  madly  on — though  Guy's  sinews  are  iron, 
he  cannot  hold  them  a  bit — he  barely  just  manages  to 
guide  them  around  the  corner.  A  low  cry  of  horror 
bursts  from  both  at  what  they  see  before  them  when  the 
corner  is  turned — a  hundred  yards  in  front  lies  a  huge 
wagon  with  a  wheel  off,  on  the  left  side  of  the  road ;  and 
on  the  right  a  great  heap  of  stones.  There  is  just  room 
for  them  to  pass ;  and  with  one  mighty  effort  Guy  con- 
centrates all  his  energies  to  getting  them  straight  through 
the  opening.  He  would  have  done  it,  but  at  the  second 
of  passing  the  chestnut  swerves  from  the  stones,  the 
wheels  of  the  phaeton  catch  the  wagon,  and  Guy,  Milly, 


THE    THOROUGHBRED.  461 

an,  the  groom  are  thrown  violently  out.  Then,  with  the 
wheels  torn  off,  the  harness  hanging  about  them,  the  horses 
tear  off  again  like  mad  things.  The  groom  is  pitched 
over  the  hedge  into  the  field ;  and  when  he  has  recovered 
a  little  from  the  shock,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  found  that 
his  head  is  on  his  shoulders,  he  turns  to  look  how  it  has 
fared  with  the  others.  He  sees  Guy  streaming  with  blood, 
holding  Milly  in  his  arms,  crying  passionately  to  her  only 
to  speak  to  him,  to  open  her  eyes,  calling  her  by  every 
endearing  name  that  the  deepest  love  can  suggest.  The 
sight  of  Parkins  sobers  him. 

"Are  you  hurt  ?"  he  asks. 

"No,  Sir  Guy,  I  don't  think  so;  but  you  seem  to  be 
bleeding  terrible  !" 

"Never  mind  me"  (in  an  agonized  voice).  "For 
God's  sake  go  and  get  help  !  Send  for  a  doctor !  Run 
on  to  the  next  farm — tell  them  it's  life  and  death !" 

When  assistance  comes,  Guy  has  fainted.  His  arms 
are  locked  so  fast  about  Milly,  they  can  scarcely  unclose 
them. 

"  Why  they've  both  fainted  surety,"  says  the  farmer, 
running  up.  The  doctor  is  with  him — as  luck  would 
have  it,  he  had  just  been  sent  for  to  the  man's  wife. 

"There's  no  fainting  here,"  he  says,  with  a  white  face, 
bending  over  Milly.  "God  help  her,  poor  young  thing, 
she's  dead." 

It  is  true  enough — Milly  was  on  the  same  side  as  the 
stones,  and  was  dashed  upon  them  with  tremendous  force 
— death  was  instantaneous.  Poor  Milly  ! — she  will  never 
grieve  or  be  wounded  any  more ;  she  will  never  have  the 
heart-ache  again  because  Adrian  smiles  on  other  women  ; 
no  one  will  hear  her  soft  kind  voice  again,  so  tender,  so 
sympathizing  to  those  in  trouble,  so  kind  and  bright  and 
joyous  when  the  world  went  well.  She  will  leave  a  void 

39* 


462  DOLORES, 

in  many  a  heart  now  she  has  gone.  Many  a  tender  regret 
will  be  uttered  over  her  untimely  end  ;  but,  for  all  that, 
before  many  months  are  over  she  will  be  like  most  of  us 
— almost  forgotten  !  Not  by  one  man,  though — not  by 
the  man  who  loved  her  so  faithfully  in  life,  and  who  will 
love  her  so  faithfully  in  death  ;  for  in  the  grave  she  may 
be  his  without  shame,  sin,  or  wrong ;  and  his  love  will  do 
no  hurt  to  the  living,  no  dishonor  to  the  dead. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

EDEN   CASTLE. 

THIRTEEN  months  have  gone  by  since  the  events  nar- 
rated in  the  last  chapter  took  place.  The  scene  opens  in 
a  room  in  Eden  Castle,  the  seat  of  Viscount  Heronmere ; 
the  time  is  about  five  o'clock  of  an  October  afternoon, 
and  the  occupation  of  most  of  the  company  drinking  tea 
or  sherry,  and  carrying  on  mild  flirtations.  Every  one 
is  young  and  well-favored,  if  we  except  (though  only  on 
account  of  the  youth)  the  dowager  viscountess,  who  is 
engaged  at  the  present  moment  in  holding  up  a  little 
bundle  of  lace  to  the  admiring  eyes  of  the  company. 
The  ladies  are  very  enthusiastic  on  the  subject  of  the 
"  lovely  blue  eyes,"  and  "  the  exquisite  gold  down,"  "  the 
alabaster  skin,"  and  "  the  darling  little  mites  of  hands," 
this  bundle  contains ;  and  even  the  men,  who  have  been 
wont  to  express  their  horror,  terror,  and  disgust  of  the 
very  young  of  the  human  species  in  no  measured  terms, 
cannot  refrain  from  a  glance  of  good-natured  and  amused 
interest  at  the  heir  of  the  house,  in  the  presence  of  the 


EDEN  CASTLE.  463 

lovely  young  girl-mother  and  the  boyish  out  overween- 
ingly  proud  and  triumphant  father.  Dolores,  in  her  blue 
velvet  and  Mechlin,  looks  younger  and  lovelier  than  ever, 
her  delicate  skin  and  fairy  figure  enhanced  by  the  richness 
and  coloring  of  her  attire. 

"Regy,"  she  calls,  in  an  anxious  voice;  at  which  her 
young  lord,  who  worships  her  with  an  infatuation  delight- 
ful to  behold,  comes  rushing.  "Regy,  darling,  pray 
mind  mamma  is  careful  with  baby.  I  don't  think  she  is 
holding  him  quite  comfortably." 

And  the  anxious  father  rushes  off  to  obey  the  injunction, 
and  to  be  laughed  to  scorn  by  the  rest  of  the  gay  party, 
at  his  presumption  in  dictating  to  his  own  mother  how  to 
hold  a  baby. 

He  has  sold  out  of  the  Guards,  for  the  idea  of  any 
separation,  however  short,  from  his  adored  one  is  not  to 
be  thought  of;  and,  as  he  remarks,  rather  grandly, — 

"You  know  my  wife  didn't  like  the  idea.  Though 
now,"  he  says,  with  pride,  "I  might  just  as  well  have 
stayed  in ;  for  if  we  did  go  to  war,  and  I  got  knocked  on 
the  head,  there  would  be  a  successor  to  the  name  all 
right." 

"Dear  boy!"  puts  in  his  sweet  young  wife,  who  fully 
reciprocates  his  affection,  and  sometimes  still  calls  him  by 
the  old  name,  "do  I  count  for  nothing?  Shouldn't  you 
mind  leaving  me?" 

"  My  darling  !"  he  answers,  reproachfully,  "  you  know 
I  was  only  joking.  Why,  fond  and  proud  as  I  am  of  the 
youngster"  (with  an  important  air),  "he's  nothing in  my 
heart  in  comparison  with  you  !" 

All  had  happened  as  Heronmere  planned.  Dolores  had 
conquered  Marcelline's  scruples,  had  started  on  the  shop- 
ping expedition,  driven  to  the  station,  and  traveled  by  the 
express  up  to  town,  where  Heronmere  awaited  her.  It 


464  DOLORES. 

was  not  until  days  after  their  marriage,  when  they  were 
traveling  abroad,  that  Heronmere,  looking  over  the 
Times,  read  the  announcement  of  Milly's  death.  His 
face  blanched  suddenly,  and  Dolores,  seeing  his  horrified 
expression,  asked  eagerly  what  ailed  him.  He  handed 
the  paper  to  her,  and,  when  she  had  read,  she  burst  into 
bitter  tears. 

"  Oh,  Regy,"  she  cries,  sobbing  on  his  shoulder,  as  he 
rushes  to  comfort  her,  "if  I  could  only  have  known ! — 
and  I  was  so  wicked.  The  very  last  time  I  saw  her  I 
tried  to  wound  and  vex  her !  If  I  could  only  have 
known!"  And  the  girl's  remorse  is  indeed  sincere  and 
true. 

"It  must  have  been  the  very  afternoon  you  left,"  cries 
Heronmere,  aghast.  "And  all  the  time  we  have  been  so 
happy  she  has  been  lying  dead,  poor  thing !  How  awful ! 
Poor  Adrian  !  I  must  write  to  him." 

"  Poor  Guy,  rather !"  utters  Dolores,  looking  up. 

Heronmere  stares  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"Yes — you  did  not  know — I  never  told  you  that.  He 
loved  her;  that  was  why  he  could  not  love  me.  And 
now — oh,  poor  Guy  ! — I  know  his  heart  will  be  broken." 

"You  must  be  dreaming,  darling  !" 

"  Oh,  no — it  is  quite  true  ;  he  worshiped  her.  When 
I  had  him  away  from  her,  he  forgot  a  little,  and  fancied 
he  cared  for  me ;  but  the  moment  he  saw  her  again,  his 
heart  went  back  to  her." 

"Then  I  suppose,"  says  the  young  fellow,  miserably, 
"  now  she  is  dead,  poor  soul !  you  are  regretting  you  took 
me?  If  you  had  waited " 

"Hush,  dear  boy!  do  not  say  those  things.  No" 
(looking  at  him  with  loving  eyes),  "  I  shall  never  be 
sorry.  I  know  I  shall  be  much  happier  with  you ;  for, 
after  all,  the  great  thing  that  makes  me  happy  is  to  be 


EDEN  CASTLE.  465 

loved  and  petted  and  cared  for ;  and  I  should  not  have 
been  happy  with  him,  because  he  would  never  have  cared 
very  much  for  me.  And  now  she  is  dead,  he  will  think 
of  her  and  love  her  all  the  more."  And  in  that  Dolores 
surmised  the  truth. 

The  news  of  the  accident,  and  of  her  son's  marriage, 
reached  Lady  Heronmere  at  the  same  time,  in  Scotland, 
where  she  was  visiting.  Perhaps  the  shock  of  one  took 
off  something  from  the  effect  of  the  other ;  but  she  was 
still  furiously  angry  at  her  son's  marriage,  which  came 
upon  her  like  a  thunderclap.  Had  her  sister  not  already 
been  in  such  sore  trouble,  she  would  have  written  her  a 
volume  of  reproaches ;  but  common  decency  forbade  an 
outbreak  at  such  a  time,  and  when  she  wrote  her  letter 
of  condolence  to  Lady  Wentworth  she  did  not  even  allude 
to  her  son. 

Lady  Heronmere  had  plenty  of  common  sense,  and, 
after  the  first  heat  of  her  anger  was  over,  she  knew  there 
was  only  one  thing  to  be  done,  and  that  was  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  Her  son  was  of  age,  and  had  everything  in 
his  own  hands ;  she  would  have  much  to  lose,  and  nothing 
to  gain,  by  quarreling  with  him.  Besides,  no  one  hated 
esclandres  in  families,  or  more  rigorously  condemned 
taking  the  world  into  confidence  against  your  own  flesh 
and  blood,  than  she. 

"  One  makes  it  up  again,  sooner  or  later,"  she  said, 
"  and  then  one  is  dreadfully  vexed  with  oneself  for  having 
shown  people  into  one's  family  secrets  and  affairs." 

She  made  a  point  of  not  meeting  her  daughter-in-law 
for  some  months,  but  when  she  did,  it  was  with  a  good 
grace ;  and  very  soon  she  not  only  became  proud  of  Do- 
lores's success  in  society,  but  very  fond  of  her  personally. 
When  the  heir  came  upon  the  scene,  there  was  not  a 
prouder  or  more  delighted  grandmother  in  England  than 
2E 


466  DOLORES. 

the  dowager  viscountess,  who  received  ten  times  as  many 
compliments  as  before  on  her  youthful  appearance. 

As  for  Marcelline,  her  cup  of  bliss  fairly  brimmed  over. 
Next  to  the  family,  she  was  the  most  important  personage 
in  the  castle.  No  particular  office  was  assigned  to  her — 
she  was  neither  housekeeper,  lady's-maid,  nor  nurse,  but 
she  exercised  a  kind  of  general  authority  over  the  differ- 
ent branches  of  the  establishment,  and,  I  am  bound  to 
say,  the  excellent  creature  did  not  abuse  it.  She  was 
still  her  young  mistress's  faithful  nurse  and  friend;  and 
although  Dolores  had  an  elegant  young  Parisian,  who 
adorned  her  for  grand  occasions,  it  irked  her  consider- 
ably, and  she  was  never  so  happy  as  when  under  the 
hands  and  care  of  her  devoted  old  servant.  I  am  not 
sure  that  the  baby  was  not  rather  a  formidable  rival ; 
once,  now  and  then,  it  happened  that  when  Marcelline 
was  wanted  she  was  not  immediately  forthcoming ;  and 
the  excuse,  when  she  did  appear,  was  invariably  that  angel, 
to  find  new  terms  of  endearment  for  which  Marcelline 
ransacked  her  whole  vocabulary,  and  even  learnt  a  few 
English  ones  into  the  bargain,  to  the  great  delight  and 
amusement  of  Heronmere. 

So  all  prospers  at  Eden  Castle ;  and  thus  we  will  leave 
it,  inhabited  by  happy,  merry  young  people,  who  take, 
and  have  every  reason  to  take,  the  brightest  and  most 
rose-colored  views  of  life. 

And  how  is  it  at  Wentworth  ?  Lady  Wentworth  will 
never  recover  the  shock  of  having  the  wife  of  one  son 
brought  home  dead,  and  hearing  that  the  intended  wife 
of  the  other  had  fled  the  house  on  one  and  the  same  day. 
The  shock  is  greater  when  she  is  witness  of  the  agony  of 
her  eldest  son  after  Milly's  death. 

For  days  he  raves  in  delirium,  going  over  and  over 


EDEN  CASTLE.  467 

again  the  moment  of  horror  in  which  he  first  saw  her 
danger,  and  that  after-one  when  he  knew  she  was  dead. 
No  one  but  the  mother,  doctor,  and  Walkinshaw  are 
admitted  into  that  chamber.  Adrian  offers  to  sit  with  his 
brother,  but  Lady  Wentworth  makes  the  excuse  that  it 
would  pain  him  too  much  to  hear  the  reiteration  of  the 
dreadful  details ;  and  he  does  not  press  it.  There  are 
three  people  now  besides  Dolores  and  Heronmere  who 
know  Guy's  secret,  but  there  is  no  fear  that  any  one  of 
them  will  divulge  it.  When  he  slowly  recovers,  and  a 
kind  of  quiet  melancholy  settles  upon  him,  the  servants, 
and  every  one  else,  think  it  is  the  loss  of  Dolores  that 
has  so  greatly  affected  him.  He  knows  they  think  it,  and 
is  secretly  glad. 

As  for  Adrian,  he  was  at  first  very  much  shocked  and 
grieved  at  Milly's  death,  missed  her  exceedingly,  and 
fancied  he  had  been  much  fonder  of  her  than  he  really 
was ;  but  before  very  long  he  fell  Back  to  his  old  pursuits 
and  amusements,  and  found  it  not  unpleasant  to  be  petted 
and  condoled  with  over  his  sad  loss.  He  is  now  quite  in 
his  old  form  again,  and  is  going  up  to  Eden  Castle  to  pay 
his  promised  visit. 

Heronmere  wrote  a  very  frank  and  manly  letter  to  Guy ; 
to  which,  on  his  recovery,  he  replied  in  kind.  Several 
times  the  young  fellow  has  cordially  pressed  him  to  come 
to  them  as  a  sign  of  forgiveness,  but  Guy  excuses 
himself,  not  because  he  bears  any  malice  or  has  any  dis- 
like to  meeting  Dolores,  but,  as  he  says,  because  he  is 
quite  settled  down  at  home,  and  has  got  out  of  the  habit 
of  visiting  anywhere.  He  is  very  kind  and  affectionate 
to  his  mother,  takes  an  immense  interest  in  his  property, 
is  building  new  cottages  everywhere  for  his  poor — devotes 
most  of  his  time  to  doing  good  in  a  practical  way,  is  an 
unfailing  friend  and  visitor  to  the  sick  and  suffering. 


468  DOLORES. 

And  all  that  he  does,  he  does  in  remembrance  of  her — 
and  not  one  day,  nor  one  hour  in  the  day,  does  he  forget 
to  think  of  the  woman  whom,  had  God  willed  it  so,  he 
would  have  loved  and  cherished  so  dearly. 


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By  Joseph  Hatton. 


WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  GREEK. 

A  Tale  of  Love  and  War.     With  ten  full-page  illustrations'  Oy  B.  WBST 
CLINBDINST.    Large  i2mo.    Cloth  extra,  {1.50. 

"  The  present  story  is  one  that  is  calculated  to  stir  the  deepest  feelings  that 
enter  into  human  experience.  It  is  of  the  masterly  order,  and  therefore  will  confi- 
dently command  readers  even  while  inviting  them." — Boston  Courier. 

"Joseph  Hatton  has  written  many  successful  volumes  of  incident,  but  in 
none  of  them  has  he  given  us  a  more  stirring  romance  than  in  his  latest  novel, 
'  When  Greek  Meets  Greek.'  The  characters  are  drawn  with  a  skilful  hand,  and 
the  scenes  follow  each  other  in  rapid  succession,  each  teeming  with  interest  and 
vigor." — Boston  Advertistr. 


THE  BANISHMENT  OF 
JESSOP  BLYTHE. 

In  LIPPIHCOTT'S  SERIES  OP  SELECT  NOVELS,    zamo.-  Cloth,  $1.00 ;  paper, 
50  cents. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  strongest  stories  of  the  year,  remarkably  graphic  in  its 
descriptions  of  the  wild  and  wonderful  scenery  amidst  which  its  action  is  located, 
and  equally  remarkable  for  the  character  drawing  of  the  real  men  and  women  who 
figure  in  it." — Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  The  author  has  depicted  clearly  a  true  socialistic  organization  on  a  small 
scale,  which  seems  as  though  it  might  have  been  founded  on  fact.  It  is  a  strong 
story,  extremely  well  told,  and  will  attract  attention  as  much  for  its  socialistic  ideas 
as  for  its  romantic  features," — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 


CIGARETTE  PAPERS. 

iamo.    Cloth,  $1.75. 

After-dinner  chats  they  certainly  are,  such  as  congenial  comrades  over  the 
nuts,  etc.,  utter  in  fragmentary  sentences  between  the  long  contemplative  puffs  of 
a  cigar.  The  illustrations  throughout  the  text  add  to  the  beauty  of  an  already 
attractive  volume. 


J.  B.  LIPP1NCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


By  Elizabeth  Phipps  Train 


/SSUED  IN  THE  LOTOS  LIBRARY. 
ILLUSTRATED.  l6MO.  POLISHED 
BUCKRAM.  75  CENTS  PER  VOL. 


THE   AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF 
A  PROFESSIONAL  BEAUTY. 

"  It  is  an  interesting  confession,  admirably  written,  and  .the  story  throughout 
is  delightfully  fresh  and  vivacious." — Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 

"  The  author  gives  in  this  handsome  little  book  a  charming  glimpse  of  ultra- 
fashionable  English  society.  It  has  an  air  of  truth  which  makes  its  moral  the  more 
impressive,  and  the  characters  are  well  drawn." — Columbus  Evening  Dispatch. 

"  This  is  a  profoundly  interesting  love  story.  Its  plot  is  simple,  natural,  and 
life-like— often  approaching  the  tragic.  The  dangers  from  the  abuse  of  the  powers 
of  hypnotism  are  strikingly  illustrated." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

A  SOCIAL  HIGHWAYMAN. 

"  There  is  a  consistency  of  bold  purpose  in  the  book  which  makes  it  the  re- 
verse of  mawkish.  It  is  a  kind  of  modernized  Dick  Turpin." — Chicago  Times- 
Herald. 

"  'A  Social  Highwayman,'  a  small  and  dainty  volume  in  Lippincott's  Lotos 
Library,  is  a  distinctly  interesting,  almost  a  fascinating,  story." — Brooklyn  Daily 
Eagle. 

"  The  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company  has  issued  in  the  Lotos  Library,  in  a  hand- 
some little  volume,  with  illustrations, '  A  Social  Highwayman,'  by  Elizabeth  Phipps 
Train,  which  originally  appeared  in  Lippincott's  Magazine.  This  thrillingly  dra- 
matic story,  always  intensely  absorbing,  has  acquired  a  new  interest  since  it  was 
turned  into  a  play,  and  many  will  be  anxious  to  compare  it  with  the  drama  which 
bears  the  same  name.  The  tale  has  abundant  life  and  movement,  and  commands 
and  retains  attention." — Boston  Saturday  Eveniug  Gatettt. 


}.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


By  Julien  Gordon. 


"  Now  and  then,  to  prove  to  men— perhaps  also  to  prove  to 
themselves — what  they  can  do  if  they  dare  and  will,  one  of 
these  gifted  women  detaches  herself  from  tier  sisters,  enters  the 
arena  with  men,  to  fight  for  the  highest  prizes,  and  as  the 
brave  Gotz  says  of  Brother  Martin,  'shames  many  a  knight.' 
To  this  race  of  conquerers  belongs  to-day  one  of  the  first  living 
writers  of  novels  and  romances,  Julien  Gordon." 

FRIEDERICH  SPIELHAGEN. 


A  WEDDING,  and  Other  Stories. 
POPP^EA. 

A  DIPLOMAT'S  DIARY. 

A   SUCCESSFUL   MAN. 

VAMPIRES,  AND  MADEMOISELLE   RESEDA. 

Two  stories  in  one  book. 
I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00  per  volume. 


"  The  cleverness  and  lightness  which  characterized  '  A  Diplomat's  Diary'  are 
not  wanting  in  the  later  work  of  the  American  lady  who  writes  under  the  pseudo- 
nyme  of  Julien  Gordon.  In  her  former  story  the  dialogue  is  pointed  and  aJert,  the 
characters  are  clear-cut  and  distinct,  and  the  descriptions  picturesque.  As  for  the 
main  idea  of  '  A  Successful  Man/  the  intersection  of  two  wholly  different  strata  of 
American  life,— one  fast  and  fashionable,  the  other  domestic  and  decorous, — it  Is 
worked  out  with  much  skill  and  alertness  of  treatment  to  its  inevitably  tragic 
issue." — Nrw  York  World. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


By  Frances  Courtenay  Baylor. 


On  Both  Sides. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"A  novel,  entertaining  from  beginning  to  end,  with  brightness  that  never  falls 
flat,  that  always  suggests  something  beyond  the 'mere  amusement,  that  will  be  most 
enjoyed  by  those  of  most  cultivation,  that  is  clever,  keen,  and  intellectual  enough 
to  be  recognized  as  genuine  wit,  and  yet  good  natured  and  amiable  enough  to  be 
accepted  as  the  most  delightful  humor.  It  is  not  fun,  but  intelligent  wit :  it  is  not 
mere  comicality,  but  charming  humor ;  it  is  not  a  collection  of  bright  sayings  of 
clever  people,  but  a  reproduction  of  ways  of  thought  and  types  of  manner  infinitely 
entertaining  to  the  reader,  while  not  in  the  least  funny  to  the  actor,  or  intended  by 
him  to  appear  funny.  It  is  inimitably  good  as  a  rendering  of  the  peculiarities  of 
British  and  American  nature  and  training,  while  it  is  so  perfectly  free  from  anything 
like  ridicule,  that  the  victims  would  be  the  first  to  smile." — The  Critic. 

Behind  the  Blue  Ridge. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  #1.25. 

"  It  is  lighted  through  and  through  by  humor  as  subtle  and  spontaneous  as  any 
that  ever  brightened  the  dark  pages  of  life  history,  and  is  warmed  by  that  keen 
sympathy  and  love  for  human  nature  which  transfigures  and  ennobles  everything  it 
touches." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Intensely  dramatic  in  construction,  rich  in  color,  picturesque  in  description, 
and  artistic  in  its  setting.  No  more  delightful  picture  of  the  every-day  life  of  the 
Virginia  mountaineers  could  well  be  imagined." — Philadelphia,  Record. 

A   Shocking   Example,  and  Other  Sketches. 
I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Rarely  have  we  enjoyed  a  more  delightful  series  of  literary  entertainments 
than  have  been  afforded  by  the  handsome  volume  containing  fourteen  stories  and 
sketches  from  the  bright  pen  of  Frances  Courtenay  Baylor,  whose  '  On  Both  Sides' 
has  won  for  her  so  enviable  a  reputation  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic." — Boston 
Home  Journal. 


Miss  Baylor's  complete  works  ("  A  Shocking  Example,"  "  On 
Both  Sides,"  and  "Behind  the  Blue  Ridge"),  three  volumes,  in 
box,  #3.75.  

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


By  C.  F.  Keary. 

Herbert  Vanlennert 

Author  of  "  The  Dawn  of  History,"  etc.     lamo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 


"The  book  is  a.  refreshing  one,  both  in  plot  and  style."— Public  Ltdgtr, 
Philadelphia. 

"  Mr.  Keary  is  an  accomplished  craftsman,  who  knows  how  to  tell  a  story, 
how  to  evolve  character,  and  how  to  make  the  fortunes  and  fate  of  the  dwellers  in 
an  imagined  world  as  important  to  the  reader  as  the  fate  and  fortunes  of  his  neigh- 
bor in  the  world  of  sight." — New  York  Book-Buyer. 

"  It  is  an  interesting  story,  with  its  scenes  laid  in  England,  and  with  a  measure 
of  sentiment  running  through  its  pages.  Mr.  Keary  writes  very  pleasingly,  and 
his  plots  are  cleverly  constructed." — New  Orleans  States. 

"A  thoroughly  English  story,  and  quite  interesting  from  every  point  of  yiew. 
Mr.  Keary  has  given  us  nothing  of  the  sensational,  but  provides  us  with  an  elabo- 
rate, well-matured  story  of  English  life,  with  characters  representing  people  of  art 
and  culture." — Elmira  Telegram. 

"  '  Herbert  Vanlennert'  is  one  of  those  stories  that  come  like  a  ray  of  sunshine 
on  the  murky  literary  horizon.  It  is  the  history  of  a  young  man  who  is  not  one  of 
those  impossible  individuals  one  reads  so  much  about  and  never  sees,  but  is  on  the 
contrary  a  straightforward  narrative,  with  its  fictional  coloring  painted  true  to 
nature.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Europe,  and  the  reader  is  taken  by  fascinating  chan- 
nels to  various  parts  of  the  continent.  A  strong  tracing  of  social  realism  is  very 
palpable,  and  the  book  leaves  a  good  taste  in  the  mouth." —  Tribune,  Oakland,  Cal. 

"  The  novel  is  one  of  the  genuine  English  character,  both  in  form  and  spirit. 
There  is  a  bloomy  blush  all  over  it  that  suggests  the  ripeness  of  plum  fruit.  The 
reality  of  life  among  educated  and  cultured  persons  is  turned  into  a  deliciously  deli- 
cate romance,  with  actuality  all  the  while  furnishing  the  foundation.  There  is  a 
luxurious  content  in  reading  page  after  page  of  such  natural  scenes  and  actions  so 
naturally  told  by  one  whose  art  is  skillful  to  conceal  his  art  in  the  task  he  under- 
takes. Politics  furnishes  spice  in  the  combination  of  the  elements  of  the  tale, 
Oxford  studies  lend  their  adornment  to  the  grace  and  point  of  its  running  collo- 
quies, and  the  interest  of  financial  fortune  bears  its  vital  part  in  the  contact  of  the 
characters.  The  university  flavor  that  pervades  the  whole  will  prove  not  the 
slightest  of  the  attractions  it  offers  to  readers  who  will  give  their  verdict  for  the 
completeness  and  finish  of  the  novel.  A  real  London  novel  it  is  from  the  first  page 
to  the  last." — Boston  Courier. 


}  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


By  Charles  Conrad  Abbott. 

A  Colonial  Wooing. 

A  Novel.      I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Those  of  our  readers  who  remember  Dr.  Abbott's  '  Travels  in  a  Tree-Top,* 
published  about  a  year  ago,  will  be  glad  to  get  this  new  volume  from  his  pen.  It  is 
a  study  of  social  life  during  the  early  Colonial  period  in  this  section  of  New  Jersey. 
The  story  is  a  charming  one,  and  will  add  very  much  to  Dr.  Abbott's  literary 
reputation."—  Trenton  True  American. 

The  Birds  About  Us. 

Illustrated.      Crown  8vo.     Cloth,  $2.00. 

"  This  book  is  one  of  the  most  complete  and  interesting  studies  of  the  birds  of 
our  country  that  has  ever  come  to  our  knowledge,  and  must  be  valued  by  every 
lover  of  our  feathered  friends.  Its  style  is  familiar  and  genial,  and  it  is  not  burdened 
with  technicalities,  while  its  descriptions  are  perfectly  accurate.  Dr.  Abbott  shows 
an  ardent  love  for  his  subject,  and  his  book  will  fascinate  as  well  as  impart  a  large 
amount  of  information.  The  author  has  been  a  close  student  of  birds,  and  he  very 
justly  thinks  that  what  so  many  authors  have  treated  as  instinct  would  have  been 
better  described  by  the  word  intelligence." — Boston  Home  Journal. 

Travels  in  a  Tree-Top. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Mr.  Abbott  is  a  kindred  spirit  with  Burroughs  and  Maurice  Thompson  and, 
we  might  add,  Thoreau,  in  his  love  for  wild  nature,  and  with  Olive  Thome  Miller 
in  his  love  for  the  birds.  He  writes  without  a  trace  of  affectation,  and  his  simple, 
compact,  yet  polished  style  breathes  of  out-of-doors  in  every  line.  City  life 
weakens  and  often  destroys  the  habit  of  country  observation  ;  opportunity,  too. 
fails  the  dweller  in  cities  to  gather  at  first  hand  the  wise  lore  possessed  by  the 
dweller  in  tents;  and  whatever  sends  a  whiff  of  fresh,  pure,  country  air  into  the 
city  house,  or  study,  should  be  esteemed  an  agent  of  intellectual  sanitation." — 
New  York  Churchman. 

Recent    Rambles  ;   Or,  in  Touch  with  Nature. 
Illustrated.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $2.00. 

"  In  the  literature  of  nature  Dr.  Abbott's  books  hold  a  peculiar  place.  With 
all  their  close  application  they  are  not  too  technical,  and  their  charm  for  the  general 
reader  is  the  more  potent  in  that  this  is  so.  We  all  love  nature,  but  vre  do  not  all 
care  to  embark  in  a  study  of  ornithology,  botany,  and  zoology  in  order  to  appreciate 
it ;  and  in  this  new  volume  we  find  how  keen  our  enjoyment  can  be,  even  if  we  do 
not  possess  such  scientific  knowledge.  Those,  on  the  other  hand,  who  are  already 
students  of  nature,  will  be  fascinated  by  the  wide  and  accurate  information  gained 
for  them  by  the  Doctor's  numerous  tramps  and  multiplied  hours  of  observant  idle- 
ness. The  book  is  full  of  touches  of  humor,  unexpected  turns,  and  pungent  say- 
ings, and  should  be  perused  by  every  one  of  our  readers." — Commercial  Adver- 
tiser (Detroit). 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


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